


An Italian Honeymoon

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: AU, Aftermath of Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late in 1969, Steed and Mrs. Peel head off on their honeymoon, stopping first in Italy and then moving on to some of Steed's old haunts in Sicily. But there's trouble afoot when a friend of Steed's warns him to be on his guard - and old enemies make themselves known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The morning sun trickled down and lit the waters of the Mediterranean in shades of aquamarine. The air was cool and comfortable, warm enough to enjoy the outdoors and not yet warm enough to inspire that well-known lethargy of sunny climes. Another beautiful morning in a long string of beautiful mornings that this particular section of the sea had been blessed with.

Anchored somewhere off the coast of Sicily, a small but well-furnished yacht bobbed on its morning moorings. Her scanty crew bustled about their chores with all the alacrity of well-paid servants. The odor of breakfast wafted across the decks,. Decks were scrubbed, fixtures polished, table laid, and conversation carried on apace. As with every morning of the past two weeks, the conversation primarily concerned the odd but devoted couple that made up the yacht’s sole passengers.

In appearance, the couple might have been any members of the well-to-do British upper classes – untitled, but wealthy enough to afford an extended stay aboard a Mediterranean yacht at the height of the tourist season. Easy-going, they preferred to be left alone except when mealtimes or shore leave demanded it. There was the aura of a honeymooning couple about them, though nothing had definitely been said to the crew. But when a man and woman spend the vast majority of their time alone in their cabin, certain conclusions must be reached. Noise, moreover, can carry on a small yacht, and, as one of the stewards put it, they were not the quietest pair in existence.

Whether or not the pair were married was quite another question, and one which occupied the majority of debate the morning.

“D’you see the way he looks at her? They’re as married as two people can be.”

The cook, a plump English woman (as cooks tend to be) named Elizabeth and who answered to Bess, tossed another pair of sausages into the pan.

“They do wear the rings,” said the steward, a Frenchman named Paul Gerard. He gestured at his fingers to make sense of the comment.

“That doesn’t signify. If they were pretending to be married, they’d wear ‘em too, wouldn’t they?”

The third member of the party in the kitchen that morning was Jane, who acted as maid, waitress, and general factotum of the wait and kitchen staff. She prided herself on being every bit a knowing girl, and this being her first Mediterranean sojourn, she badly wanted everyone to know that she was not inexperienced in the ways of all things.

“It doesn’t matter, in any case,” said Bess. “Anyone can see they’re in love.”

They were married, in fact, and that sunny, cool, beautiful Mediterranean morning they were just completing an activity that many people, married or not, engage in on a sunny, cool, beautiful Mediterranean morning.

A pleasant lethargy having subsided into some slight activity, Emma sat astride her husband’s hips and drew designs on his broad chest with the tips of her fingers. A tall, elegant woman – when not sitting astride her husband’s hips – Emma would not have reminded a casual observer of any paintings by the masters. She had a beauty all her own, although her husband more than once compared her auburn hair, longer now than when they’d departed England, to that oft celebrated by Titian.

John watched her from beneath slitted lids, his face that picture of languid relaxation that one sometimes sees in large housecats lying on a sunny window ledge. He too did not qualify for portraiture, except perhaps in the vague sardonic turn to the mouth, in which he resembled the rakes so popular in 18th Century art. Sir Joshua Reynolds would have been pleased to paint him, though probably could not have forced him to sit still.

“I wish I had paint,” Emma mused. She drew an abstract picture with the pressure of her fingers.

“We’ll get you some the next time we go ashore,” said John.

“Jane might not like it. She has to do the linens.”

She erased the imaginary design with the palm of her hand, then repeated it on his left breast.

“Rather not inconvenience Jane, then. This is very pleasant, in any case.”

He squeezed her leg as her fingers ran down the line of hair that extended from the center of his chest, down his abdomen and lower, to an area currently covered by his wife’s body and flowing white nightdress.

“We should probably get up,” she said, though she’d already begun the process of counting his ribs.

He shifted under her and smiled a dreamy smile. “I’m working on it.”

“Naughty.” She pinched his side. “I was referring to breakfast.”

“I wasn’t.”

She pinched him again, hard enough to make him yelp. In a smooth move he rolled her over onto the mattress – not that she mounted much resistance, just a shout of protest that was proceeded by a chorus of laughter as he assaulted her neck with kisses.

“John...John…STEED!”

A hand on his chest forced him to draw back when he would feign have begun the process all over again.

“What?”

“I’m hungry!”

“You know, your stomach has interrupted us more times…”

“I am always hungry after strenuous exercise, and the exercise this morning has been very strenuous.” She smiled. “Not to mention last night.”

The compliment did not escape John, whose primary flaw was of unspecified vanity. With a mutter of protest, he rolled over onto his back and watched as his wife flowed her way out of bed. Being presented with the opportunity by her bending over to pick some of the covers off the floor, he did not forebear a playful pat on her backside. Emma spun around.

“Touch me like a racehorse again, and you can sleep with the crew.”

“Should’ve taken the whip to you long ago.”

A devilish smile crossed her face. “It’s been tried.”

She vanished into the bathroom.

John Steed could be very active when he chose to be; he had the atheleticism required in a good horseman, the command of his body required of a good soldier. Over the course of his long and varied career, he had withstood many forms of mental and physical torture without breaking, a testament as much to his mental willpower as to his physical fitness. He was known in his service for having a will of iron, as inflexible in certain professional venues as he was easy-going in all others.

He was also as indolent as a housecat. By the time his wife and partner emerged from their cabin’s bathroom, hair wet and smelling of vanilla shampoo, he had so far advanced in his toilette as to roll over onto his side and fall into a comfortable doze, marked by the occasional snore. 

For a moment, Emma regarded her husband’s sleeping form with a warm, tender regard that would have inspired another amorous display from her lawful spouse, had he been able to see it. But he did not roll over, only gave a quick snort and adjusted his head on the pillow when she spoke his name. Emma went back into the bathroom, filled a water glass under the tap, and returned to the bedroom to empty the contents over her husband’s head. With an oath that would have embarrassed a Sicilian dock worker, John was out of bed, thrashing about with the covers whilst Emma beat a hasty retreat out the door. He would have chased her even as far as the main deck, but his current state of undress prevented him from that measure. Though not by law a demure man, he had been warned off wandering the decks without appropriate attire the first day out, when the maid Jane came around the corner at an inopportune moment and, finding her employer in a state of deshabille, screamed as though the ship was on fire.

Having escaped her naked spouse, Emma went direct to the dining room for breakfast. The first few days of the cruise saw them taking breakfast in their own abode, until Emma insisted that they shift camps for the morning – otherwise they might never leave their cabin at all. She was pleased with the spread. For breakfast they were having sausages, toast, mixed grill, and porridge, with the option of orange juice and coffee. There was also a small plate of kippered herring that Emma felt particularly pleased by.

She took her seat at the table and had already loaded her plate before her lord and master – as he sometimes liked to facetiously term himself – appeared in the doorway. As usual, he looked not quite like a man who had been rudely awakened by a glass of cold water on his face. He was scrubbed and shaven, his face glossy smooth, and his often wild curls semi-tamed by the application of hair oil and a battle with a comb. He’d thrown on a pair of bathing trunks and an airy, knit cotton top that exposed an attractive V of his tanned chest. As far as Emma was concerned, he looked far better than he had a right to look.

“Oh, what have we got? Sausages, toast…kippers.” He made a face. “I thought we left England to escape that.”

“I like kippers.”

“My dear, you married me, which shows your admirable good taste, but your adoration of those salty, rubbery, fishy things exceeds the bounds of common decency. You might as well be eating tanned leather dipped in fish oil.”

“I’ll try it sometime and see.”

Emma cracked into one of the kippers with relish and was pleased by the expression of disgust on her husband’s face.

John helped himself to toast and coffee, however, and even broke his non-breakfast rule to sample a sausage and some of the mixed grill – proof that physical exertion does indeed whet the appetite.

“Do you want to go ashore today?” he asked, once the pangs of hunger had been allayed.

“I’d rather spend the day on the deck. It’s so nice and isolated here – why hurry the return to civilization?”

John smiled. “Why indeed? We could just live here, you know. No mathematics conferences, no board meetings.”

“No mountains of paperwork, no missions to France.”

“And no damned officials officiating.” John sighed. “What a dream.”

As though in answer to their combined thoughts, Gerard entered the dining room bearing a sliver of paper in his hand.

“A wire just came through, sir,” he said, presenting the item with an officious flourish. Emma stifled a laugh and John clinked his coffee cup.

“Thank you,” he said. He tossed the paper onto the table and reached for the sugar.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Emma.

“Why?”

“Might be important.”

“All the more reason to leave it where it is. I’m in no mood for important things. I want a swim and a sun-bath and a martini, in that order.”

“We’re out of vermouth.”

John stared at her like she’d shot his favorite horse. “Out?”

“I told you last night.”

“I was very distracted last night. How did we manage to drink it all?”

“You were showing Gerard how to make the perfect Manhattan.

“Out of vermouth. What’s this world coming to?”

Emma raised her coffee cup to her lips. “Oh, stop it. You don’t even like martinis.”

“I like martinis. I have made it a goal to like martinis. I will like martinis if it kills me.”

Emma smiled. “We’re still out of vermouth, so you’ll have to like something else for a little while.” Her eyes went to the paper lying on the table. “You’re not going to open it?”

“No.”

“It could be from the Ministry.”

“The Ministry can go jump in the Mediterranean, as I’m about to do.” John rose to his feet. “Are you coming?”

“I’m going to have another cup of coffee. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She watched him go to the door. “Don’t get a cramp and drown. I shan’t be a widow to an English breakfast!”

“Have another kipper!” he shot back.

Emma laughed, but as soon as she was alone she found herself staring at the thin bit of paper. She craned her neck – it was addressed to him. Not to them; to him. That meant that it was an official communique, for only a handful of friends, her lawyer and managing director, and the necessary Ministry officials knew where they were and how to get ahold of them. Friends would have addressed both of them, her work colleagues would have addressed her, which only left … the Ministry. And if it was from the Ministry, it was probably important.

Emma tapped her fingers on the table. Just like him, to leave something so enticing sitting out in plain view. He knew she wouldn’t open it, just as he knew that it would drive her crazy not to. It was his business and, though she was his wife, she was not his official partner, and as such had no right to go prying into his work. So she finished off her coffee and tossed her napkin onto the empty plate. She picked up the telegram and thrust it into the pocket of her robe before exiting the dining room.

The beautiful early morning was slowly giving way to a beautiful late morning. The sky was not cloudless, but rather a soft blanket of blue dotted here and there by fluffy clouds that put Emma in mind of a child’s stuffed animals. Picking up her book and sunglasses from the cabin, she settled into a deck chair on the main deck, not too far from the splashing noises made either by her husband or an amorous dolphin.

Though a well-educated woman with a taste for cerebral pursuits, Emma still enjoyed a good mystery novel. She had just reached that point where Hercule Poirot discovered the second body in the garden pathway, when the patter of bare feet on the deck and the drip of water indicated the imminent approach of the man whose wedding band she wore on her finger.

“Marvelous day,” said John, shaking his wet hair like an overgrown sheepdog. “Perfect temperature.”

“John, you are dripping on my book.”

“So sorry, m’dear.”

He dried off with one towel, then laid himself out in the sun atop the other. Emma watched him over the edge of her book as he stretched his arms – strong, muscular arms, with powerful shoulders glistening from the water – above his head. He rubbed the center of his chest – broad, well-defined, now tan from weeks of sun-bathing, with just a small hint of a stomach that made him rather cuddly and endearing. She wondered if any other woman had ever thought of John Steed as cuddly, like a big teddy bear. A big, rough teddy bear…

“Stop undressing me with your eyes,” said John without opening his own.

“I am doing nothing of the sort.”

“You are. I can feel it. Stop it this instant or…”

“Or what?”

“Or I shall carry you back to that cabin and have my way with you.”

A thrill passed through Emma’s frame. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He opened one eye. “Oh wouldn’t I? I am a desperate man, capable of anything. And when my lawfully wedded wife dares to look at me in such a fashion, I am liable to commit all sorts of depraved acts.”

“I believe you are all talk.”

John sat up. “Would you like me to prove it to you?”

“No. I want to read my book.”

Emma feigned interest in whatever it was M. Poirot was doing, whilst attempting to suppress the smile as she now felt her husband’s eyes on her.

“All right, then I won’t tell you,” he said, sitting forward with his hands clasped over his knees. “How I’d take you in my arms and carry you back to our bed. How I’d rend your garments in my haste, strip you stark naked, cover your body in kisses. How I’d ravish you until you cried out in ecstasy, begging me not to stop, and when it’s over, to do it all again. So you’d better stop looking at me like that.”

He rested his chin on her arm. Emma smirked at him. 

“My, you do think a lot of yourself, don’t you, Mr. Steed?”

“I receive ample encouragement, Mrs. Steed.” He kissed her arm. “Of course, then I would hold you, kiss your brow, stroke your hair, whisper to you how much I adore and worship you, how dear you are to me, and how glad I am to be your husband.”

His voice had dropped one octave, and his eyes had taken on an earnest depth he only got when he was being very serious, or very tender. Well she knew that expression, as she knew every expression that ever crossed that dear face. Maudlin as the sentiments were, she knew he meant every word.

John might very well have followed through on his dire threats had not the connubial scene been interrupted by the appearance of Gerard bearing two mimosas on a tray, along with another sliver of paper.

“Another wire?” muttered John, taking one mimosa and eyeing the paper distrustfully.

“Yes sir. Just came through.”

Emma took her own drink and the paper off the tray. “Thank you, Gerard.”

“Oui, madame.” Though he was bursting to know the purport of the two missives, Gerard could not very well stand there while they were opened without seeming very invasive. He walked away as slowly as possible, however.

“I’m on my honeymoon. They can damn well leave me alone.”

John took an unhealthy swallow of the orange juice and champagne.

“Teach you to gulp mimosas," said Emma when he'd recovered from his fit of coughing. Are you going to open this one?”

“If it’s from the Ministry, it’s probably the actual message. The other one indicates the code used.”

He said it all with a downturned face, brow knitted together in that familiar petulance of manner. Emma removed the other telegram from her pocket.

“You know that you’re just as curious as I am,” she said, waving it at him.

“I am never curious.”

He took the two telegrams nevertheless and ripped them open with unnecessary violence.

“I was right,” he muttered.

As he cast his eyes over the contents, however, his face began to transform from petulance to something altogether more serious. The knitting of his brow deepened. Emma straightened up in her deck chair and waited.

“Damn blasted bloody impudence,” were the first words from John’s mouth, but they spoken in a tone that implied a much stronger curse.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Damn blasted bloody impudence nothing?”

“Not important. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

He crumpled the two telegrams together, then seemed to think better of it and began to tear them to tiny pieces.

“Nothing to concern myself with?”

Emma hated that phrase, and she hated that she heard it more and more from his lips. There was truth in it, of course – if it was a government concern, she really had no business with it, and he couldn’t have told her even if he wanted to. But…for so long they had shared information, never kept anything secret, and now she was in the position of having to see the aftermath but nothing leading up to it. She watched as John scattered the tiny pieces of the two telegrams into the Mediterranean.

“Can’t you…” she began.

“I really can’t, Emma. You know that.”

There was silence. She’d refused his offer of having her security clearance updated, back before they were married. She had her own business, her own concerns, and she did not want to be back on official duties for the shadowy overlords at the Ministry. Even as an unofficial agent she had been subject to the whims of their partnership, and the demands of assignments often interrupted her professional and personal concerns. She wanted to be his wife, but retain her independence. So she had refused…and as she knew she would, she regretted it.

When John turned to face her again, though, his expression had cleared and he was smiling.

“Would you like a swim?” he asked.

“You just got out.”

“Yes, but I’m most invigorated again. Besides, I’d like the chance to undress you with my eyes as well, and it’s damned hard with that robe.”

So they went for a swim and another bath in the sun and spent the day reading and lounging. Emma endeavored to forget about the telegrams, or John’s enigmatic response to her questions, instead focusing on the wonderful lethargy of mind and body that came with exposure to the sea and sun.

Dinner that night was an excellent repast of steak au poivre in a sherry cream sauce followed by a crème brulee for dessert, and a selection of fine Italian vintages that John had absconded from the mainland. Yet for all that, the food and wine did nothing for Emma’s nerves, for once, and she could not keep her mind away from the wire and its mysterious contents.

Following dinner, they walked along the deck in the cool of the evening. Waves lapped against the boat, the moon shone down almost as bright as the sun had been and reflected on the rippling waters. Emma knew she should have felt at peace when they stood at the bow and her husband’s arms looped around her waist and her husband’s lips pressed against her temple. It was a beautiful night, she was full of good food, she was standing in the moonlight with the man she loved. She should have felt utterly content. But she didn’t.

“Is something wrong?” he said into her ear.

“How did you know?"

“I’m not your husband for nothing. You are also squeezing the blood out of my hand.”

Emma relaxed her grip on the limb in question. “Sorry.”

 

“What is it?”

She paused, uncertain whether to tell him all. There was nothing he could do about it after all, not if it was classified information. But the sense of foreboding got the better of her.

 

“That wire earlier,” she said. “You’re sure…if it was very important, you would tell me, Steed?”

 

She turned her head enough to be able to see his profile.

 

“If it was very important, I wouldn’t be able to.” He tightened his arm. “I promise you, though, it is nothing urgent or even remotely dangerous. They probably could have waited until I got back, but you know the Ministry: no one is allowed to have a nice vacation. When we dock tomorrow, I simply have to make a phone call. That’s all.”

 

That should have made her feel better. It should have quelled the strange sense in the pit of her stomach that something was wrong. Although he tended to understate what constituted “remotely dangerous,” she didn’t believe that he would tell her it was nothing more than a phone call if it wasn’t. So why did she still feel a little queasy about the whole thing? She was far from being a nervous, highly-strung female, and indeed she always assumed he could take care of himself. But then she wouldn’t be beside him, would she? That was the problem. If it ever came to action, he would have to leave her behind.

 

“I love you very much, you know,” she said. It seemed such a paltry, predictable expression for what she felt, but it would have to do.

 

“My wife,” he said into her ear. “My darling, dangerous Emma.”

 

She turned her head and captured his mouth with her own.

 

Though theirs was a marriage based on compatibility of spirit and mutual respect, still there was much to be said for the physical as an expression of the spiritual. If John noticed something new in the way Emma made love that night; if he understood, in the back of his mind, the intensity with which she clung to him, he made no show of it. He was delighted by her passion, and responded to it with all the energy of which a man deeply in love was capable.

 

Later, somewhat satiated in her concerns, Emma lay with her hand across her husband’s chest. As she regarded his profile in the light of the moon that streamed through their cabin window, she came to one or two conclusions she would never be dissuaded from. She knew that if it ever came to action, he would try to leave her behind; and she was damned if she would let him.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John Steed awoke with his wife in his arms. For a moment he remained still, not wanting to end the sensation of holding her. She was so lovely in the morning. She was lovely all the time, but this being the morning he focused on that. Makeupless, her hair a tangled mess, her face a little scrunched in concentration…he wondered how other men felt, not waking beside her. They didn’t know what they were missing.

When he moved to check the clock on the bedside table, she shifted and murmured, her brow creasing. One long hand reached out for him and he returned, snuggling down into her embrace.

“It’s time to get up,” he whispered in her ear. 

“It’s too early,” she replied. 

“It’s almost ten. Don’t you want to see Sicily?” 

“No.” She buried her face in his chest and tightened her hold. “I’ve seen it.” 

“When you were a child.”

“That was enough. Mmmm, this is very comfortable.”

“I can’t argue with you.”

“Then go back to sleep. Or…”

He felt her lips against his skin.

“We need supplies…” he said, manfully ignoring the press of her mouth.

“Gerard can get them.”

“I need to make that phone call…”

“Make it later.”

“We…need…” He closed his eyes and his hand slipped into her hair of its own accord.

“Emma, we really need to…go to shore…” 

“Shush. This takes concentration.”

Her hand snaked beneath the covers. John’s body stiffened, along with other essential parts of his anatomy that appeared to agree with his wife that going ashore was purposeless. Sicily could wait.

“You should be a double agent,” he said. “You’d make an admirable Mata Hari with skills like that.”

She turned her face up to his. “What makes you think I’m not?” 

“A dangerous woman, luring Britain’s finest away to their doom?”

“I got you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you certainly…got…me…”

If his partner and now wife was indeed a double agent, John felt she could not have been a more effective one. No woman had ever held him so in thrall with a combination of humor, intellect, and sheer sexual compatibility. He did not consider himself a particularly susceptible man, but there were certain moments when she could have asked him to betray all the secrets he ever knew. Torture was less effective. 

When she leaned over him, her auburn hair formed a beautiful curtain about her lightly freckled face. 

“Won’t you make love to me, Steed?” she said, pressing small kisses on his chest. “My own, darling John, my husband, my lover…”

John sucked in a hard breath. What sort of a man was he, after all, to let a beautiful woman – his wife, no less – beg him so? A beast, not a man. He tilted her face back up to his and kissed her. 

They both fell back against the pillows, mouths locked together. John nuzzled at the soft skin of his wife’s neck. 

“Have I ever told you how very lovely you are?” He kissed her throat.

“Never.”

“Really? What a dreadful husband I must be.”

“Terrible.” Emma’s hand came up and threaded through her husband’s hair. 

“You have a marvelous body,” he continued, working his way down her throat to her collarbone.

“Mmm.” A decided tingling sensation followed every place his lips touched.

“I am particularly fond of these…” His mouth followed the line between her breasts.

“Steed,” she whispered. He rose from his activity to kiss her more than willing lips.

Things had advanced to a particular state when a tiny and timid knock came at the door. At first John was determined to ignore it, but then it came again, much louder.

“What?!”

“I’m sorry, sir, madame, but the…you have visitors,” came the stammered response from beyond.

“Tell them to go away!” shouted John.

“They say they know Mrs. Steed, sir. A Mr. and Mrs. Golding.”

“They can go to devil!”

“Oh, how did they find us?” Emma groaned and buried her face in his shoulder. “How in hell did they find us?” 

“Friends of yours?” John rolled over.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” She sat up, rubbing her face with both hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t think it would be ... quite proper to carry on, with them outside.”

John sighed, running his fingers up and down his wife’s spine. 

“What happened to ‘make love to me, Steed’?” he asked. 

Emma glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Helen Golding and I were at school together. We were never the best of friends, but she’s…” 

Emma waved, vaguely, trying to find the words for what she meant. “I just don’t think I could relax.”

John sighed again. Never let it be said that he wasn’t an understanding man.

“It’s perfectly all right.” He kissed her shoulder. “I just hope it tortures you as much as it does me.”

“I assure you, it does.” 

He watched, for the second time in two days, as she escaped their bed.

Emma did not particularly like Helen Golding – once Helen Brightly – but she felt it behooved her to be polite. It was the sort of girlhood relationship that sometimes lasts longer than it should. Helen had been in her year at school, and they’d been friends in a casual sort of way. Never close, they had seen little of each other after school until around the time of Emma’s first marriage. Then they moved in the same circles, knew the same people, right up until Emma began working with John and things other than social obligations took precedence. Now…well, apparently now she would face up to Helen’s existence once more.

Helen had married Reginald Golding, a banker with delusions of grandeur, and it was the pair of them Emma met when she exited the cabin and came to the forward deck. There they were, reclining on a pair of deck chairs, for all the world as if they’d been invited on board.

“Emma, darling!” cried Helen, rushing into her friend’s embrace as though they were long-lost sisters. “My dear, how wonderful! Just think, you and little me, in Sicily at the same time. What are the odds?”

“Practically nil, I should imagine,” sighed Emma. “How are you, Helen?” 

“Oh, darling, can’t complain. Come and say hello to Reggie. Reggie! Say hello to dear sweet Emma!”

Reggie gave an incoherent greeting that perfectly demonstrated his grasp of his native language. Emma wondered why it was she had chosen to leave the warm, comfortable nuptual bed to converse with two such limited wits. 

The conversation was singularly uninteresting, consisting of Helen’s account of their travels through the Italian mainland, punctuated here and there by remarks about how terribly unfair it was of poor dear Emma to not invite them to her wedding. 

“It was a very small ceremony, Helen,” Emma said. “Just some family members, really. Ste…John is a little retiring.”

The latter was a rank lie, but the smallness of the ceremony was true. Neither of them relished the idea of a big church service and settled for a small, intimate wedding at the village church near to where John had grown up. It also kept things more or less out of the papers, which had been something of a concern since her divorce from Peter.

Helen’s smile could have blinded an airplane. “Oh, of course, darling, I’m not upset at all! But you know, where is this delightful husband of yours? We’re just dying to meet him, aren’t we, Reggie? 

“Mmm,” said Reggie.

“What does he do, Emma? Some kind of government work, they said?”

“Yes, he’s…he has a position with the Foreign Office.” 

She never did know how to relate what her now-husband did for a living. Spy was so recherche, and anyways it wasn’t quite accurate. Neither was “civil servant,” but it sounded less daring. 

“Ah, well, if he has government pull, you know, he might put in a good word for me,” said Reggie, then went silent. Emma did not think it wise to ask him to continue. 

A few minutes later, John appeared. He’d put on a pair of light tan trousers and deck shoes, and the same long knit top he’d worn the day before. The smile on his face gave Emma pause, though. She recognized that besotted, idiot grin, and she knew, before he even opened his mouth…

“Here we are then, my pet!” he said, his voice pitched higher than usual. A open handed smack connected with her backside.

“What’s this, eh? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” 

“John…John this is Helen Golding, her husband Reggie. My husband, John Steed.”

“Pleased to meet you, pleased to meet you.” John shook hands in turn, pumping Reggie’s as though it were a water fixture. “John Steed, Steed like the horse. In more ways than one, eh, my lovely?”

Another smack to her backside and Emma began considering what it would cost to get an Italian divorce. Then she caught Helen’s expression, which somewhat mollified the reaction. She’d never seen the woman look half so shocked.

John tossed himself out on a deck chair and put both feet on the glass table before him.

“Sit down, sit down. Jolly decent of you to come on board, just to see us. ‘Course we haven’t been on the mainland yet, y’know, too, ah, busy, if you follow me.”

His leer coupled with a cocked eyebrow in Reggie’s direction would have tried the patience of a better woman than Emma Steed. She could not quite decide whether she wanted to hit him upside the head or play along with the charade.

“Your wife has been telling us so much about you,” Helen finally managed to get out.

“Has she now? Eh, she’s a fine little filly, ain’t she? Damn lucky she wanted a paddock in my stable.”

“Are you a horse man, Mr. Steed?” asked Reggie.

“Love ‘em like they were my own family. Born and bred in the stables – do a bit of steeple-chasing, touch of polo. Anything to pass the time, you know.”

This launched an intimate and highly uninteresting discussion of everything to do with the horsey-set, as John usually liked to refer to them. The truth was that while he could pretend it well enough, neither of the Steeds were particularly interested in that peculiar and entirely English class of people who preferred their horses to their wives and their dogs to their children. Emma, in fact, glazed over rather quickly as she listened to her husband’s insipid speech, characterized here and there by “eh, wots” and “damme” and any other number of blithely idiotic turns of phrase that he loved to trot out when there was noxious company about. She sometimes thought he took more lessons from 18th Century adventure novels than he did from the real world.

It did the trick, however. Ten minutes in Helen had begun to fidget at her inability to get a word in edgewise. Reggie, however, believed he had found a kindred spirit in John Steed and made the proposal of lunch in Palermo. As neither wife could find a reason to decline the invitation, it was agreed that they’d all lunch together. Then the Goldings departed, leaving the Steeds grinning and waving from the forward deck.

“You just couldn’t resist, could you?” asked Emma, collapsing into her seat.

“I thought it’d put them off.” John’s grin showed just how pleased he really was with himself. 

“You put Helen off right enough – now she thinks I divorced a daredevil to marry an idiot.”

“When in reality you divorced an idiot to marry…me.” He spread his arms and grinned. 

“Hmph. I wish you’d told me what you were going to do. I might have let you know that Reggie would look on you as one of his own.” 

“Yes, I confess I made an error of judgment there.”

“And now we have to have lunch with them.” 

“Correction: you have to have lunch with them. I have a phone call to make.”

Emma glared at him. “Which I’m sure will take the entire afternoon.” 

“If I can manage it.”

She sipped on her orange juice. “You know what you didn’t consider, though? Now that they think you’re an idiot, they’re going to be wondering just what possessed me to marry you. I obviously did not do so for your mind. Do you know what they’ll conclude?”

“I can imagine.” John grinned. “I rather like the idea of being a…what would you call it?”

“Most names for it are not flattering, darling.”

“Come to think of it, why did you marry me?”

“I’m struggling to recall.”

“Couldn’t be because you love me?”

“Mmm, no, that’s not it. I make it a point never to marry men I’m in love with. I think it was because of that thing you do.”

“Which thing?” 

Emma shot him a meaningful glance. John’s face relaxed.

“Oh. Oh, that. Yes, well, you do help.”

“Thank you, dear.” She paused, looking at the half-eaten breakfast before them. “Steed?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you know what I’d like to do right now?”

His eyes met hers. “I can make a good guess.”

“We don’t have to be on shore for another two hours and…I’m not hungry.” She got to her feet. “Are you coming?”

As might be expected, John did not need to be asked twice. He followed her at a half run to their cabin, but was barely in through the door before she’d pressed him back against it and brought her mouth to his. Her aggressiveness was not surprising, really, but quite stimulating, especially when she broke the kiss to drop to her knees in front of him. 

“Fine little filly,” he said, caressing the back of her head as she opened his flies.

“Given our relative positions, such language might be rather dangerous,” she replied.

“It’s a – ah! – a compliment.”

“You’re the one with the equestrian derivation.”

John did not have much of a response for that, lost as he was in the sensations currently radiating up his body. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door, gently holding his wife’s head as she caressed him with her mouth. 

“I take it back,” he groaned. “You’re a fine woman. A fine…” 

His sentence was cut off as she performed an action which, through long experimentation, she had ascertained as a fullproof method to shut him up. His responsive shout carried right through to the crew cabins.

The couple left their yacht rather later they had originally intended, and found they only had time for a brief farewell at the first street. Emma went off in search of the quayside restaurant to meet the Goldings, while John turned in the opposite direction with a promise that he would make the phone call as quickly as he could and then rescue her. Although he claimed he needed to make the call from a particular restaurant on a particular street in Palermo, the truth was that John wanted there to be no chance of his wife finding or following him, as he feared she had a tendency to do. Her concern for him, though touching, could only result in complications.

It had been many years since John Steed first set foot in Palermo – then he had been part of the liberation force dropped in nearing the end of the war, an official representative of the British government and an unofficial Ministry observer. His clandestine assignment had been to make contact with certain friendly Sicilians in an underground spy network known only as L’Avventura, to ferret out the remains of fascist resistance, and to ensure that British interests were upheld. Palermo had taught him the techniques of interrogation under siege, which included certain things he still balked at. Liberation was chaotic, loyalties questionable, and for a young soldier only recently seconded to the Ministry it was a source of great excitement as well as nerve-wracking terror. Jump into the deep end, as his father once told him, and he certainly had. With both feet.

The Trattoria Drago still stood in the same place in the little alley whose streetname had been obliterated during liberation and had changed more than once over the course of years. But still the same carved wooden sign over the door, the same combined odors of coffee at the front, and garlic from the kitchen; even, as far as John could see, the same clientele of elderly Sicilian men at their coffees and vinos in the front parlor.

He took a seat at the customary table in the corner – right angle to see the window, the door, the kitchen, and the street beyond, all at the same time – and ordered a coffee and grappa. It was still early, but when in Rome - or Palermo, as the case might be. His watch showed ten to the hour, and he greatly doubted that Gianni would be on time. Italians were not known for their punctuality, and Sicilians….well, Sicilians.

Lest some condemnation be made of John, especially in light of later events, for not telling his wife, partner, and most trusted ally the true nature of his meeting in Palermo, let it be remembered that he was still an active operative of the British government and that as such he was bound to keep certain things secret, even from his nearest and dearest. It was one of the challenges of the secret agent’s life that he must perforce keep his life a secret. He did not for an instant believe that this meeting would be aught but a quick, simple exchange of information, as per the telegram’s instructions, which he would then pass on to his superiors in Whitehall the next time they docked. That things did not fall out quite as he intended could not be placed at the door of John’s conscience – if he had thought such great consequences would result from his not telling Emma the whole truth, he should have revealed all to her on the instant.

It was nearly twenty past before Gianni made his appearance. At first John did not recognize him – the thin, athletic youth of 1943 had transformed into a chubby middle-aged man. But the twinkle in the eyes was there as soon as Gianni spotted his friend in the corner. An expostulation of greeting and subsequent embrace reminded John of many bygone days, and the pair settled into their seats with all the comradery of men who had been through hell together – which they had, of a certain type.

Gianni was that breed of man for whom time did not pass. He spoke as though they had just seen each other the day before yesterday and he need only recap what had happened in the interim. As John listened, he felt like he was travelling into the past. He became the young officer, still a little wet behind the ears in matters of the spy game, excitedly preparing to ferret out information. He’d never been very good at the cloak and dagger work, the intricate arrangement of missions to the satisfaction of the powers that be. He almost always gave his own name rather than an alias – although he was well-equipped with any number of them – and trusted his emotions more than his logic. Perhaps that’s why he liked Giani – for an agent, he had no subterfuge, no sense that he’d planned a damn thing before walking in the door. He simply moved with the tides, as it were.

John so far forgot his own age and the years between as to accept a cigarette from the crumpled pack Giani produced. He hadn’t smoked in years.

“You’re still the same, Giani,” said John, finally able to get a word in edgewise. “How’re your sisters by the way?”

“Lucretia is a nun and Gianella has six - no, seven! I forget Giaccomo – children now.”

“Lucretia’s a nun?” John recalled the little girl, no more than eight at the time, with bright shining eyes and long dark hair, who followed at his heels and asked all kinds of impertinent questions. “I always thought she’d turn a spy.”

“Ah, she gave up on the world of men when you left, my friend.” 

“She was only nine.” 

“You were her one and only love.”

John laughed. He looked at the smoldering cigarette in his hand. He did feel younger, somehow.

“And you, my friend?” said Gianni, tapping the gold band about John’s finger. “You are married, eh?” 

“Two weeks ago.” 

“Ah, she must be such a woman to settle you down.”

“She’s such a woman that I don’t have to settle down. We’re unsettled together. This is interrupting my honeymoon, in fact.” 

“Ah, yes. I know. I am sorry.” Gianni looked honestly contrite and John wondered if he hadn’t been a little too abrupt.

“But it is necessary,” continued the Sicilian. “More necessary than you know.”

“What’s it all about? The wire was very vague.”

“We must have another grappa, for old time’s sake.” Gianni raised his hand and John pushed it down.

“Not for me, I’m supposed to meet my wife for lunch. You can come along, if you’d like – she’d be glad to meet you. But what’s it all about, Gianni? You have something to give to me.”

Gianni looked a tad embarrassed. “I have nothing. But I needed to see you.”

John’s brow creased. “Why the wire to Whitehall?”

“I had to go through the Ministry, otherwise you might not have received it. They…I knew you would be in Palermo, I could not risk not finding you before they did.”

“Who’s they?”

Gianni took a deep breath. “You must leave Sicily.” 

“Leave Sicily? Why? We just got here. My wife…”

“It’s for her sake that you must leave. You do not wish for her to be a widow.” 

The agent’s blood went cold. “Listen, Giani, what is this about? What do you mean?”

Gianni leaned forward. “Do you remember a man named Carlo Bennett?” 

“No, can’t say as I do. Was he important?”

“Highly unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. But he was hired to assassinate you.” 

John laughed. “It’s been tried before.”

“He was a circus clown. This would have been…’62 or ’63.”

That did ring a bell. A clown assassin would. John leaned against the hard back of the booth.

“Why is this coming up now?”

“Because you are now in Sicily, my friend, and Sicily is not safe for a man who once escaped an assassination attempt by…”

Gianni waved his hand vaguely, as though that’s all that needed to be said. John’s frown deepened. It still did not make much sense. After Carlo failed, no one else had come after him. He’d entirely forgotten the case, could only recall it had something to do with drug running and ended with the arrest of several circus performers mixed up with the Mafia. He had run afoul of plenty of nefarious organizations before and never let it stop him from going where he liked, when he liked. It was Gianni’s face more than anything that gave him pause. They had been in plenty of scrapes together in the past, and Giani had always gone into them with a smile and left with a smile. At the moment, his expression was positively dire.

After a moment, John spoke again. “You think we should leave Sicily.” 

“I think that you should never have come. But because you are here, you must try to get out as quickly as possible. They already know you have arrived.”

“But look here, that case is old. Surely they can’t still…”

Gianni’s hand clasped about John’s arm. Gone was the twinkle, gone was the old smile, and in its place was a man who looked very serious and very frightened.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice no louder than a whisper. “They do not forget. And there may be…there may be other reasons, too, why they would know you are here. You must not ask about that. You must leave. Just leave. Please, John, for her sake, if not for yours.”

As though that ended the conversation, Gianni was up and walking out the door before John had a chance to react. He started from his seat then, and would have called after the Sicilian if he wasn’t suddenly aware of several eyes on him. He sank back into his chair, glancing about at the old men who had paid him no mind, and still didn’t. John Steed stared at the two empty glasses of grappa. Perhaps he would have another.


	3. Chapter 3

As Emma listened to Reggie’s insipid drone and Helen’s high-pitched histrionics, she began to drift off into a half daydream of the variety that she would have embarrassed by not many years before. Her thoughts were mostly occupied by the vision of her supposed ass of a husband - his broad shoulders as he emerged from the ocean, his long torso sheened with water, dark tossled hair, and smoky grey eyes. Emma pictured his naked form, his mouth on her breast as he entered her, his hands in her hair, his whole heavy body bearing her down onto their bed; the taste of him that morning when she teased him and sucked him and took delight in his pleasured groans. 

 

That memory recalled another, a certain night at a small pub. She could barely remember why they were there in the first place, and in any case it had been largely driven from her mind by the rather athletic lovemaking.

 

She did remember John pressing her against the wall in his room, separating her legs by moving his thigh between them, crushing her breasts against his chest. His forcefulness was more than arousing, made all the more so when he groaned in her ear how much he wanted her, what he wanted to do to her, begging her, in part, to let him take her. He had made love to her right there against the wall, taking his pleasure on her, giving her pleasure in return. It was the first time he’d ever made love to her. His hands and mouth bruised her, dominated her, and made her give up everything to him. He drove her to orgasm twice before he came himself. She remembered the heady rush of being with a man who could possess her so totally and yet never seem to rob her of anything.

 

The memory of it, rushing back with such potency, made Emma wish she hadn’t been so concerned about politeness and propriety with regards to old acquaintances. She wanted to be back on the boat in the cabin with her lover, the man who could make love to her so thoroughly that she would never even consider being with anyone else. 

 

As though in response to thoughts that would have made her blush to admit, Helen’s voice cut through the warm air.

 

“Emma, darling, there’s your husband!”

 

Emma turned, smiling. No doubt about it – a very attractive man, even in his besotted idiot mode. He moved along the pavement at a jaunty pace, that same stupid grin plastered to his face. Determined to carry out the routine until the bitter end. Emma straightened up when his eyes met hers. The twinkle, almost always there now, had dulled just a bit. She noticed that he carried one fist tight at his side. As he sat down beside her, he rubbed one hand over his neck, as though he had a crick there. The same hand dropped to his side and then rose, to gently clasp Emma’s. She glanced at him. He rarely made such gestures in public. 

 

His laugh, though, was as inane as it had been that morning. This time Steed started off on dogs – a bit of a sore subject for them, actually – and was well on his way to describing the breeding differences between springer spaniels, cocker spaniels, and King Charles spaniels.

 

“I say, I say,” said Reggie, “you know, I’ve been trying to get old Hel here to let me buy another springer, eh wot? What do you think, Johnny?”

 

“Capital idea. Lovely little blighters, man’s best friend an’all that!”

 

Emma rolled her eyes. Luckily, Helen seemed just as sick of the whole thing. With a little excuse about the time and an appointment, the dull as dishwater Goldings left the Steeds to their own devices.

 

“Well, you’ve done it. We shan’t see them again on this tour.” Emma settled back into her seat and sipped on her afternoon cocktail. “Did you want something to eat?”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“Everything all right?”

 

“Just fine. Where’s that waiter? I think I’ll have a grappa.”

 

Emma frowned, but said nothing. Annoyance, perhaps, with having to work on his honeymoon. He certainly seemed to relax after the imbibing of some lunchtime digestifs, and took Emma on a slow walk through the streets of Palermo. Looping his arm about her waist, he told stories of wartime adventures, dangerous encounters in dark alleys with both gunmen and Sicilian lasses alike. How could she be concerned when he talked so happily and so freely about places that were evidently dear to his heart? She realized, not for the first time, that John had been a dashing young soldier on the streets of Palermo while she was still a little girl with pigtails. Though she teased him, she adored listening to him talk, his silly stories about a past so full of incident and excitement. It was a pleasant afternoon all around, devoid of incident, and Emma began to wonder if she wasn’t becoming a bit ridiculous in her suspicions.

 

For dinner they went to a charming little bistro on some back street that at first gave Emma pause. They stepped down a long dark hallway that smelled of garlic and sweat, but came out the other side on a balcony dining room over looking the Mediterranean. Emma suddenly felt very lucky. She was entirely content, hopeful about the future and grateful for the past, with all its tribulations, that had brought her here, to this moment and with this man.

 

“I love you, Steed,” she said, covering his hand with her own.

 

He smiled and squeezed her fingers. “Do you prefer the fish or the meat?”

 

“Unromantic swine.”

 

“I don’t think that’s on the menu.”

 

Emma settled back into her chair and brushed her foot against his leg. “Oysters.”

 

“You’ll be the death of me.”

 

“Oh, that’s right. I forget that you’re so much older than me. Takes some time to recuperate nowadays.”

 

“Wait until tonight. I’ll show you recuperation.”

 

“You continue to threaten me with such dreadful things.” She smiled at him.

 

John looked down at the water. “What do you think about staying onshore tonight?”

 

“Did you have a place in mind?”

 

“Mmm. Charming little pensionne, I’m certain we could find a room in. Overlooking the ocean.”

 

Emma sighed. She’d grown attached to their stateroom on the yacht, but the thought of making love in a new, preferably larger, bed was enticing. As, indeed, was the glint in her husband’s eyes.

 

“Whatever you like, dear. I’m just the wife.”

 

John shot out a laugh.

 

The waiter appeared, bearing a bottle of wine on a tray.

 

“I didn’t order this,” said John, inspecting the label. “Capital vintage, though. 1961.

 

“The gentleman at that table insisted.”

 

They both followed the waiter’s hand and saw nothing but an empty table. The waiter’s wide brown eyes widened even more.

 

“He was…just there!”

 

John nodded. “Did you know him?”

 

“No, sir. A Englishman, sir, he asked me to bring this over. For the happy couple, he said.”

 

Emma watched as her husband’s jaw tightened. He looked up at the waiter.

 

“Open the wine.”

 

She leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers together. Perhaps her suspicions were less ridiculous after all.

 

*

 

The balcony of their room at the pensionne overlooked a small street, quiet and green and sparsely lit. The air was cool and ocean-washed, the moon shone just above the distant rooftops. A calming, romantic view for anyone, even a man less susceptible to beauty than John Steed. But he was not looking at the view. He looked down, at the dark figure of a man in a striped shirt, carrying a paper grocer’s bag and walking down the opposite side of the street. He followed the man with his eyes, somehow both hoping and not hoping that the fellow would stop, turn, look up, put the bag down, or do anything to indicate that he wasn’t just another man getting home late with the shopping.

 

John felt his wife’s arms come around him and her cheek press into his shoulder.

 

“Mmm,” said her warm, inviting voice. “This was a marvelous idea. So nice not to be bobbing up and down like a cork for once.”

 

Her hands caressed his chest through the knit of his shirt. She’d just showered and smelled of vanilla and the scrubbed clean scent of the pensionne soap. John watched the man’s progress as he passed beneath the streetlamp. He felt like a fool, but he could not help himself.

 

Emma craned her neck around to look at her husband’s face. “Is everything all right, Steed?”

 

“Perfectly.”

 

“Are you coming to bed?”

 

He turned and smiled down at her. “Of course.”

 

John stepped past her into the room, but Emma didn’t move. He sat down on the bed and took off his shoes, then padded to the door and rattled it, walked to the bathroom and glanced in, then to the only other, small window, and ran his fingers along it. Finally, having satisfied himself, he sat down on the bed and held his arms out to her.

 

Emma decided she would not press the issue – at least, not for a little while. She went to him. Distracted or not, John Steed was still an excellent lover.

 

Emma had discovered that sex tended to clear her mind of extraneous cobwebs – she’d done some of her best scientific work following a good healthy roll in the hay with John. 

 

John’s lovemaking was as sweet and generous and attentive as it always was, but Emma could sense a certain distraction in him. Lying in the comfortable afterglow, she thought of the bottle of wine delivered to their table, the telegram, the phone call she assumed he made.

 

Emma rolled over and propped herself on her elbow so that she faced her sleepy spouse.

 

“Are you going to tell me what has you so worried?”

 

John’s face was the picture of surprise. “Nothing…”

 

She shook her head. “You’ve been acting strange since you arrived at the trattoria this afternoon. There was that bottle of wine at dinner; this pensionne, when you know full well that you’d rather be on the yacht; you spent five minutes watching a man walk down the street, and you’ve cased this room twice. You’re only this distant and careful when something troubles you.”

 

“I suppose I was distant and careful a few minutes ago?”

 

“Don’t be petulant.” She put her hand on his chest. “I know you can’t tell me everything, but do let me share in some of it. Is there danger?”

 

He wriggled. “I hope not.”

 

“Not an answer.”

 

For a moment, she thought he was going to do his usual rigmarole when he didn’t want to talk, and pretend to get angry at being suspected. Perhaps he was. But in any case, it was interrupted by a distinctive thud on the balcony outside.

 

Both partners were out of bed without another word. John yanked on his trousers and Emma threw a dressing gown about her shoulders. It took no more than a few seconds for them to cross the room and carefully open the balcony doors.

 

A dark shape lay on the whitewashed balcony floor. The streetlights did nothing to illuminate what it was, not until John sank into a crouch and laid his hand upon it. As though triggered, the shape changed from something indistinct and eerie to a very recognizable form. John turned the body over.

 

Emma had never seen the chubby little man before. The eyes were wide open and a single bullet wound in his skull was crusted with blood.

 

“Who is he?” she asked, looking up at the empty street outside for any hint of a killer or a witness.

 

John gazed down into the unseeing eyes. The eyes that turned up to hers at the question were dark with anger.

 

“His name’s Gianni.”

 

Not half an hour later, John and Emma entered a smoky late-night café off one of the main thoroughfares. A few teenagers with slicked hair and dangling cigarettes looked at them with the open appraisal of the young and bored. But John moved quickly to a booth in the back – view of front door, kitchen, counter, and window, Emma noted – and had ordered two coffees and two large whiskies before they even sat.

 

“Steed, what’s going on?”

 

John rubbed his neck. He had debated about telling her the truth the whole day; even were it not for Gianni’s death, he would probably have told her anyways. As Oscar Wilde once said, no man should have a secret from his own wife; she invariably finds it out. Now he believed this went outside the realm of paltry concerns about security clearance.

 

The coffees came and John talked quietly and quickly, giving her a run down of his conversation with Gianni, who he was, and his exhortation that they leave Palermo. Like the good agent that she was, she listened until he had done, and then began her own questions from the very top.

 

“Who’s Carlo Bennett?”

 

“A circus clown. He had some dealings in the old country, fled to England, and they caught up with him there. They tried to make him assassinate me, but he hadn’t the stomach for it.”

 

“Why did they want you dead?”

 

“Damned if I can remember. Something about drug running, I think. I have a tendency to put a wrench into the works on things like that. I’d have to wire London to get all the details.”

 

“And Gianni thought you were in danger.”

 

“He knew, and his death tonight proves it.”

 

John curled his fist. More than twenty years of undercover work and Gianni gets mixed up in a vendetta that had nothing to do with him.

 

Emma’s eyes were sympathetic. Her long fingers drummed on the table.

 

“Is it possible that his death has nothing to do with you? That he was playing a double game and was trying to get you involved to protect himself?

 

“Possible, but unlikely. He didn’t ask me for anything, just told me to leave Sicily.”

 

“So the supposition is that he was killed as a warning?”

 

“Seems to be.”

 

She nodded, her fair brow furrowed so that John could see the tiny scar in her forehead. He did admire her. Another woman faced with such a prospect would have been blank, hazy, or hysterical; disbelieving at the very least. But not Emma. He could see her running over all the options in her perfectly ordered brain, weighing it all logically. Not that she was without sentiment, but she was first and foremost a logician. It was why they were so perfect as partners: her logical mind, his intuition. Together they were unbeatable.

 

“Why kill Gianni first?” she said. “Why go to all the trouble of scaring you? If someone can drop a body on our balcony, he can certainly find a way to kill you.”

 

“Exactly my thinking. Something in all of this doesn’t feel quite right – if Gianni knew I was coming to Sicily, certainly the Mafia must have known. They could have popped me off sunning on the yacht’s deck.”

 

“You think there’s something more to it.”

 

John nodded.

 

“And you want to stay.”

 

He could see the tinge of pain in her eyes when she said it. She had been a widow once – well, not quite a widow, but close enough. He despised doing it to her, yet he felt compelled. He couldn’t let this lie. 

 

Emma saw the decision in her husband’s face before he’d consciously made it.

 

“You’re not much good to anyone dead,” she said, quietly.

 

John’s gaze rested on her. “I don’t intend to be dead.”

 

Emma sighed. There was an element of her husband’s personality she did not like. The very whiff of danger excited him, and being told that he wasn’t allowed to do something was a near guarantee he’d want to do it – even at the cost of his own life. Gianni’s death meant that he had a personal stake in seeing this through. He probably already had an idea about what to do next.

 

“We’ll have to send the yacht on – we can’t risk the lives of the crew,” she said. 

 

“Yes. I’ll get in touch with the Ministry and let them know what’s happened. They can put me in contact with some of Gianni’s cohorts.”

 

He cleared his throat. She had not asked the logical question yet. John fancied she already knew the answer.

 

Emma picked up her whisky and swallowed it in one draught. “I should have known a honeymoon with you would wind up with dead bodies on our balcony.”

 

John smiled. “It’s quite a problem.” He paused. “Emma, you don’t…”

 

“Not another word. I do. Drink up, Steed. We have work to do.”


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had just barely crested over the water and was not yet penetrating the yacht’s curtained windows when Emma awoke from a difficult sleep. She had a simultaneous awareness of the earliness of the hour and the emptiness of the bed. Her heart seized and continued to seize until her bleary eyes located the familiar form of her husband, seated in front of the bathroom door. He had a good view of the window, the door, and the bed. She fell back against the pillows. 

“What time is it?”

“5:30.”

“How long have you been sitting there?”

He didn’t answer, which was indicative enough. Dressed already in tan slacks and a striped t-shirt that she had threatened to burn more than once (it made him look like a French sailor in an old melodrama), he had a set, impenetrable expression on his face. In lighter moments she referred to that expression as his “secret agent” face. Steed could be ruthless when needed, and he looked positively ruthless. 

“You might have wakened me.”

“You needed some rest. It’s going to be a long day.”

Emma stretched her tension-filled limbs. She had only slept for a few hours, and the events of the night before seemed distant and obscenely recent at the same time. The body on their balcony had been taken away quietly before the police could be notified. Emma was always amazed at how far the Ministry could reach and how quickly bodies vanished. No longer safe at the pensionne, where Steed evidently though they would be safe, they ultimately returned to the yacht to catch a few hours of sleep in relative comfort. Emma had even quelled the fear that someone might have planted a bomb on the boat, entirely on the faith that her husband knew what he was talking about when he said that Gianni’s death was a warning and nothing else would happen that night. 

Despite his initial display of bravado at the cafe, Steed evidently had not felt quite so confident. She doubted if he slept at all. She’d known him to function on several days of no-sleep, so it was hardly surprising. It was a trick she never managed to pick up, insomniac or not. He followed her to the bathroom and stood in the doorway while she washed her face and went about her morning routine. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her even when she wasn’t looking at him in the mirror above the sink. 

“Steed,” she said, tossing her towel over the rack and turning to face him, “what’s the plan for today?”

“Major Stimson is in town,” he replied, as though she knew who in the hell that was. “Head of our Palermo contingent. I phoned him up last night. He’s rather irked with me, thought I should have checked in after Gianni gave me the warning. I didn’t go into many details last night, but I’ll have to meet with him today to find out what he knows. Then…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got to go see the DiSiccas. Gianni’s family.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Yes, I’d rather you did. Come with me to Stimson, too, as you’re going to have to be involved with this.” Steed’s scrunched up his face in that familiar manner that meant he was trying to pass something off. “I wish you’d reconsider leaving Palermo. I could handle this in a few days and join you on the mainland.”

“Handle the entire Sicilian mafia?”

“I don’t think…”

“Steed, I am happy to leave Palermo this instant, if you come with me. But if you you stay, I stay.” She pushed past him into the cabin. Really, if he was going to be the sort of husband who worried about her all the time…

“I’m being rather stupid, aren’t I?”

She wasn’t certain to what element of their situation he referred, and so made a relatively non-committal noise as she searched the wardrobe for some appropriate clothing.

“I wish you’d trust me,” she said. “You always have before.”

“I do trust you. Maybe I don’t trust myself. It’s all rather odd.”

“When has it ever not been rather odd? Jeans or slacks?”

Emma held up both. He smiled. 

“I have a curious weakness for you in jeans. They just beg to be taken off.” 

She chose jeans. It was their honeymoon, after all.

It was barely six when they set foot on the dock once more, but already the weather hinted at a warm, even sultry day. Emma could not repress a tinge of regret - she would have liked to spend the day lying on the deck in the sun, perhaps even banning the crew so she could sunbathe nude. Then later making love in the open, under Sicilian skies. She sighed and Steed took her hand, as though apologizing for the inevitable. 

They were meeting Stimson at the bistro where they’d had lunch with the Goldings the day before. It was quiet at that early hour, with only a few early risers having their coffee and rolls before work. Too early for tourists, in any case. They had their choice of tables. 

Major Stimson arrived with the coffee. A tall, mustachioed man, bronzed by the sun, he walked with a stiff, upright gait like a soldier on parade. Though he had been in Sicily for good ten years, he still had the appearance of a tourist, a visitor, not a local. There was something immediately English about him that set him apart from the citizens of Palermo. 

“Steed, glad to see you. Mrs…Steed.” 

Stimson had a clipped, dry style of speech that Emma absurdly felt was of a piece with his well-groomed mustache. She now recognized him, though the name escaped her earlier - she had met him once or twice at the Ministry, a thousand years ago. He evidently still knew her by her other married name. 

“Mrs. Peel, I think, would avoid confusion, Major,” she said. 

Steed grinned. “It’s rather like your codename, isn’t it?”

Stimson looked confused. “I suppose this is all right?”

“Mrs. Peel is the soul of discretion,” said Steed.

“I’ll sign anything you’d like me to, Major,” said Emma, sipping her coffee.

Stimson lit a cigarette. “I hardly think that will be necessary. The Ministry thinks that you should keep right out of this, Steed, but as I doubt they’ll make much headway in convincing you of that.”

Steed responded with a shake of his head. Emma smiled. 

“All right.” The Major sat forward in the attitude of one about to address a board meeting. “I checked on your friend Gianni’s story. We try to keep tabs on what the Mafia is up to, particularly when it involves one of our agents. Steed, no one wants you dead. The Mafia couldn’t care less about you.”

Steed’s brow cocked. “Gianni was fairly positive.”

“Your friend Gianni may have been lying.”

“Why would he lie?”

Stimson shrugged. “Protection…”

“He didn’t ask for any protection. He told me to leave Palermo and that was all.”

“Search me. We’re quite positive on this point: after Carlo failed in his attempt there was a general upheaval in the ranks. It was finally decided that it was not worth the loss of more good men to continue to come after you. Whatever Gianni knew or thought he knew, he was mistaken.”

Steed sat back. “So why is he dead?”

“Ah. That we’re not so positive about. Your little friend ran in some rather shady circles, I’m afraid. Informants often do. There’s every chance he ran afoul of someone.”

“And dumped him on my balcony? This was a warning, Major.”

“We’re investigating, Steed. I can’t stop you from getting involved - he was your friend, I know. But the Ministry wishes…”

Steed waved his hand. “Pass by that. Well?”

“The last man Gianni saw, other than yourself, was a priest by the name of Father Francisco Gianelli. I would suggest you go see him.”

“A priest?”

“He probably went there to confess. Here’s the address.” Stimson slid a card across the table. He glanced between the two of them. “I’ll keep you updated on the Ministry’s side of the investigation, but don’t be disappointed if it turns out to be just another disagreement in the Sicilian underworld.”

“I don’t suppose the Ministry is concerned that one of their long-term informants was just murdered and tossed onto the balcony of one of their top agents?” said Emma. 

Stimson’s face did not waver. “We’re always concerned, Mrs. Peel, but we have to take things according to priority. Gianni will be missed, but he was not priority.” 

He said this without malice. It was just another death to him. 

When Stimson was gone, Emma turned to Steed. 

“Pencil-pusher,” she muttered. 

“He has a network of thirty agents and countless informants to run. Sicily is a hotbed of underworld activity.” Steed tapped the card on the formica tabletop. “Stimson has his hands full.”

“They aren’t taking this seriously.”

“No, but he hasn’t told me to stop. Gianni was my friend, not his.”

“I’d hope he’d be more concerned about your life.” 

Emma tapped her spoon savagely against her coffee cup. It was too much, really - a dead body on their balcony and the Ministry treating it like a common prank. Steed reached over and set his hand on hers. 

“They’ll be very upset if you break their china.”

“I’ll be very upset if they break my husband.” She set the spoon down. “Father Gianelli?”

“Father Gianelli.”

The small church was set off one of the main streets, in one of those nice open courtyards with which that the Italians loved to honeycomb their cities. Sicilians seemed no different. The interior was not grand, but it had the hushed, sacral feeling that Emma always associated with Catholicism. Something in the ritual and hierarchy that simply did not exist in the common-garden English country church. Even St. Paul’s felt more like a tourist attraction. 

It was late in the morning now, after morning mass, and so the church was empty save for the small woman with a kerchief wound over her hair, praying at the corner pew - a figure that Emma fully believed every church was issued with at the moment of its foundation. A priest stood at the altar and it was to this person that they applied. 

“Father?” said Steed. 

The priest turned. He was younger than expected, about Steed’s age, with an open face and dark, intelligent eyes. 

“Are you Father Francisco Gianelli?” Steed’s Italian, though accented, was immaculate. 

“I am. What can I do for you?” Father Francisco looked at Emma and smiled. “A wedding? Ah! No, a christening!”

“Uh, no…” stammered Steed. If Emma didn’t know any better, she could have sworn he was blushing. 

“I want to talk to you about one of your parishioners. Gianni DiSicca…”

The priest’s friendly smile dropped. He suddenly looked very serious and very old. “Who are you?” 

“My name is John Steed.”

The name produced the desired effect. Not another word was spoken as the priest led them back past the altar and into one of the church offices

After the medieval greyness of the church, the office had an odd modern feel: piles of papers on the side of the desk offset a typewriter, a blotting pad, and an empty coffee cup. Father Gianelli motioned the Steeds to chairs and sat down to rummage through the desk drawers. He brought a paper-wrapped parcel out and set it on the desk, all without saying a word.

“Because you are here, I believe that Gianni is dead?” said the priest in halting English. 

Steed raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid so.”

Father Gianelli crossed himself and murmured a prayer in Latin. “He feared it would be so. He said you would come, if it was.”

“Father, when did you last see Gianni?”

“Late yesterday. It was after the evening’s vespers. Gianni was a good man, but he…involves himself with violent men.” The priest’s eyes rested on Steed as he spoke. “He was on both sides of the law. He came last night to confess.”

Steed shifted in his seat. He evidently didn’t want to ask the question. 

“Father,” said Emma. “I know that it might not be possible to say, but what did Gianni confess to you?”

Giannelli set his penetrating gaze on her. “You are his friends?”

“I’ve known him since the war,” said Steed. “He was my friend.”

“We want to find his murderer and bring him to justice,” said Emma. 

The priest nodded. He didn’t look annoyed or nervous or even particularly sad. He had a graveness all his own.

“I cannot tell you much. Gianni came to me. He looked frightened, but also…yes, determined. As though he had something he must do and he resolved himself to do it. He confesses to me all that he has done in his life. The men he has killed. I know something of Gianni’s life; I am not surprised. I absolved him. Then he gives me this…” 

Father Gianelli held up the paper parcel. 

“He says that something may happen to him, and that if it does, a man will come to see me. I will know to trust this man. He’ll be a tall Englishman in a bowler hat, and his name will be Steed. I am to give Mr. Steed this parcel. It is important that only Mr. Steed takes this, and I am to give it to no other.” The priest held out the parcel. “You wear no bowler, Mr. Steed, but you are he.”

Steed took the parcel from priest’s outstretched hand and undid the string that held the paper together. There was a slight rustle as he opened it. 

“It’s a book,” said Emma, leaning forward. 

“Dante’s Inferno.” Steed turned the hardback copy of the poem over in his hands. “In English. He said nothing else?”

“Nothing.” Father Gianelli leaned back and sighed, as though a great weight had been lifted from him. “I am sorry about Gianni. He had done many bad things, but good men sometimes do.”

Again the dark eyes rested on Steed. 

“I’ll be damned if I know what Gianni was trying to tell me.” Steed tossed the Inferno onto the bed and leaned back in his chair with his fingers steepled. 

Emma lowered her own book. “Perhaps he thought your literary education needed improving?” 

“‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’ - could be a reference to civil service.” 

It was ten o’clock. Outside their cabin the Mediterranean ebbed and flowed, the docks rattled with evening traffic; everything went on as usual. It had been a tiring, frustrating day and Emma was glad to be back on the yacht. The Ministry had been all over it with a fine-tooth comb against the possibility of sabotage, but as Steed said (and Emma agreed), it was unlikely that assassins would try to plant something. Privately both were convinced that Gianni’s death had nothing to do with a Mafia vendetta against Steed, and that there was something deeper happening that had accidentally involved them. When Stimson came to see them that evening he had confirmed what he said earlier: no further Mafia connections turned up in regards to Steed. In fact, one of their contacts within that auspicious organization had told Stimson point blank that no one gave a damn John Steed was in Palermo. 

“They know how to make a man feel wanted,” Steed had quipped, but Emma saw that if anything the recent revelations bothered him more. A direct fight he could understand, but this was far deeper and stranger than they had originally supposed.

Steed had been pouring over the book that Gianni sent to him ever since dinner. He’d slid a paper knife under the binding, pried the cover off, shook out every leaf. Now he was methodically reading the whole poem, searching for some sort of answer in the individual lines. Emma, meanwhile, had been trying to focus on her own book but found her mind wandering over what she could remember about the Inferno. 

“Steed,” she said. “Could it be something in the title? Does the Inferno mean anything to you, other than the poem?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“He obviously sent you the book for a reason. He sent you an English copy, not an Italian one. He sent you just the Inferno, not the entire Divine Comedy. It’s widely considered the best part of the Comedy.”

“Yes, I had to read the damn thing in school. Paradise seems a dull place.”

“Writers of that generation had difficulty conceiving of the glories of Heaven. It’s all light and no substance. Paradise Lost has the same problem.”

“We’re better at imagining horrible tortures. I suppose it says something about the state of humanity.” Steed rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish he’d left some clue other than this. Why can’t people in my business learn to write letters? ‘Dear Steed, so and so is the one who murdered me. Love, Gianni.’”

Emma laughed. “Let it rest for now. Maybe we’ll think of something in the morning.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

She watched as Steed went about his evening routine. It wasn’t just the book that bothered him. The day had been largely wasted, at least in terms of making any progress on Gianni’s murder. Emma would have felt more satisfied if their lives had been attempted, just to have something new to go on. What was more, the visit to Gianni’s family proved more painful than anticipated. They roundly refused to even speak to Steed.

When Steed got into bed beside her, she could feel the tension in his body withou touching him. Sometimes that tension was useful - it made him sharp and sensitive to the smallest shifts around him, like a piano wire. Sometimes, though, she knew that tension could be distracting.

“The invasion was an ugly time,” he said, unprompted. “Our own soldiers behaved less than properly. Murders, assault, looting, sometimes just a general sense of unease and cruelty. Men too accustomed to violence being brought into contact with people they’d been taught were enemies.”

He looped his arms over his knees. Not the first time in their personal and professional relationship, Emma was aware of what Steed carried. Beneath the good humor and the heightened sense of justice was a man who had seen and done terrible things. He’d told her some of them, ones he wasn’t proud of, and well she knew of what violence he was capable, somehow there was always more. Palermo was both a beautiful memory and a terrible one, and Gianni and his family were a part of that. 

Emma laid her hand against his bare back. She was a baby when the war started and a small child when it ended. What conscious memory she retained of it was indistinct. She understood it, but only academically, only sympathetically. But Steed was in the thick of it.

Her hand slid up his shoulder to his hair - those soft, thick curls she loved so dearly. He rolled his shoulders and neck. She sat up and kissed the skin of his back, resting her head on his shoulder as she stroked his hair. It wouldn’t do to try to tell him she understood. They had always avoided those simple phrases that seemed to pale in comparison to the true depth of their feelings. She kissed his shoulder and brought an arm around him to lay him back down on the bed. 

He was still tense when he put his arms around her. The muscles in his neck flexed taut when she moved in long strokes from his scalp to his back. Even when she nestled into his chest he seemed to hold her away, as though afraid that in taking her in his arms he would make her a part of the ugly past. She pulled away a little to look into his grey eyes, and saw the melancholy there behind the sparkle. She wondered if it had always been there.

Emma didn’t know if Steed was beautiful to other women - she knew that he was attractive and took vicarious pride when women looked at or flirted with him (to a point, that is). But if any of them actually saw his real beauty, she could never tell. Emma’s hand moved down his body. The soft skin of his chest, dusted with wiry hairs, moved beneath her fingertips. She felt his gentle breathing and watched his stomach move in and out as her fingers cascaded over it, probing and massaging. His body was mottled with imperfections; as she ran her fingers over the white scars that dotted his chest and his arms, she counted each moment he had escaped death. Each scar was a tender reminder that he had come back to her. 

His breathing quickened as she touched him; the tactile acquaintance with his body incited an aching desire deep inside her. But she ignored that, because for the moment it wasn’t about her. 

“Emma,” he whispered, burying his head against her neck, some of the tension dissipating as he gave himself to her. 

She kissed his ear, and lowered her face, breathing in the powdery scent of his soap mixed with his skin. She recalled how she sometimes caught a whiff of him on her clothes or on her sheets in those few years when she had gone back to her ex-husband. The smell always brought her back, and made her long for Steed’s arms, recalling his touch on her lower back when he stood close to her in a crowded room, or the heat of his skin when he held her in the night and she breathed in the heady male scent that belonged only to him. Now she had him again.

“My Johnny,” she said.

“I hate that name,” he mumbled, but she felt him smile against her collarbone.

She smiled too, fingers tracing the hairline on his neck. He gave a little rumble, like a cat purring. She tickled his neck and he made the same noise, pressing his whole body against her. She could bring him out of the past and into the present, and though she could never eliminate the pain he still carried, she could help to salve it. Emma ran her hand down his side and around to his front.

He sucked in a breath when her fingers closed around him. He was already partially aroused, but her touch brought him the rest of the way. She stroked him gently, from base to tip, marveling as he hardened. She was aroused by his arousal, and stroked him again, harder, his size and width and soft skin setting off sense memories in her. As though sensing it, Steed reached for her. 

“No,” she said. “Roll over.”

He did as he was bade. She pulled back the covers and sat propped on her elbow, lowering her other hand again.

It was beautiful to watch him, his handsome face taking on a beatific expression as she touched him. His stomach rose and fell in time to her strokes; his hands grasped at the sheet beneath him. Early semen made him slick, and she smiled as his eyes glazed, his breath speeding and then catching. She leaned over and kissed his chest, licking at his hardened nipples, then pressed her mouth to his Adam’s apple, never slacking in her pace, wanting to bring him up and over the edge. 

“Emma,” he said, or tried to say, but the name choked off and became more of a grunt than anything. She raised her head and saw that he did not see her, he was reaching a peak, his eyes closing and face straining as his hips moved, involuntarily thrusting into her hand. She loved him like this - loved his vulnerability and his power, loved his arousal and the fact that she brought it to him. Her gentle, generous, enigmatic man; and he was hers, she thought with a fierce pride - others could look, others might have touched, but he was hers. 

“John, you’re so good,” she whispered in his ear. “Come for me, darling.”

She could feel him breaking even before he did, and her hand went into his hair, stroking it gently as she finished him. He came hard with a sharp cry from his chest that contained no words, just the relief of completion. She kept going for as long as he remained tumescent, until he softened in her hand and rolled his face to press it against her breast. Then she let her hand rest on his stomach and felt his pulse slow again. 

Steed shifted finally to look up at her. There was a gratitude in his eyes, mixed with just a touch of embarrassment. 

“That was unexpected,” he said. 

“Seemed you could use a distraction.” 

Emma smiled and kissed the tip of his nose before rolling over to find the tissues on the side table. Steed’s face when she turned back was just a touch more embarrassed. 

“Men are disgusting,” he said, half-serious. “I don’t know what you women find attractive about us.”

“If I ever figure it out, I’ll let you know.” Emma settled back against the pillows.

“But women are so soft and warm and clean,” said Steed, resting his head on her leg. “You smell nice too.”

“So do men.”

“Have you ever been in a sports’ club with them? They most certainly do not smell nice.”

She stroked his thick hair. “To each their own, darling. Don’t question something which works in both our favors.”

“Mmm. Good point.” He kissed her thigh. “This hasn’t been the best honeymoon, has it?”

“Could be improved,” she sighed. “The dead bodies are not my favorite part, but I’m rather fond of the rest.”

“I’m sorry. I suppose you’ve had better.”

“I’ve had duller.”

Steed raised his head to look at her. She wondered if there would ever be a time when Peter wouldn’t come between them - or rather, not Peter, but the guilt his reappearance meant. Her guilt for leaving Steed, his guilt for not stopping her. 

She pulled on Steed's curls as she considered her next words.

“The problem with my first honeymoon was not the location, nor the hotel, nor the champagne. It was the bridegroom. Perhaps I was too young or too inexperienced to know that - perhaps we were never right and only thought we were. But it was never like this.”

She did not appreciate the slightly smug expression on his face. 

“And you ever bring him up when we’re in bed again, you can sleep on the floor.”

Steed chuckled and kissed her leg. “Understood. Now…” His hand pressed into the back of her knee as his mouth moved up her inner thigh. “How can I express my gratitude?”


	5. Chapter 5

Steed knew there was someone else in the room without opening his eyes. He didn’t move and tried to keep his breathing consistent as his ears followed what his eyes could not. He heard the murmur of voices - Italian - and the rustle of the curtains as the window opened and shut. He heard the padding of soft soles on the carpeted floor. There were two men, one of them reeking of fish; Steed wondered why no one ever sent beautiful female assassins. Beside him, Emma shifted on the pillows, a slight hitch in her breathing indicated that she too was awake. Steed’s body tightened as the two men began to move across the room, towards their bed. It was now or never. He wished he’d put on pajamas. 

Certainly the assassins had not expected for their quarry to spring suddenly out of the bed in a simultaneous flurry of hands and legs. It helped that the two men had fanned out in their approach because it meant a one-to-one fight. Steed caught his opponent in the jaw with a right hook, and followed it with a jab to the stomach. As his man doubled over he heard the crack when Emma turned her man over her shoulder and he landed against the side of the bed. Steed brought his knee up into his opponent’s chest . He rolled over and came up staggering, but with a knife drawn. Steed could feel a rush of satisfaction at the sight of the blade glinting in the lights from the water. The man lunged, Steed stepped to the side and seized his wrist on the follow-through. There was the snap of the man’s wrist bone breaking, a cry that he immediately stifled with one hand to his opponent’s throat. 

Establishing that Emma succeeded in subduing her man - she had him on the ground with a knee in his back, wrenching his arms back to tie them with a cord torn from the curtains - Steed dragged his assailant towards the bathroom. He was going to end this. His honeymoon had been interrupted, his friend had been murdered, his wife infuriated and frightened. He was not having it. The light snapped on in a dazzle of white linoleum and Steed turned the water on in the tub. The man struggled, but Steed had both height and weight on him and was uninjured. 

“You can’t leave us alone, can you?” he said, his own voice distant and oddly calm. “Who do you work for?”

The man spat at him. 

“All right,” said Steed and shoved his head under the running water. 

He held him there for several seconds, just long enough to make him really feel it, then pulled him back. The man blubbered and spat. 

“Who do you work for?”

He shook his head. Steed shrugged and shoved him back under, tipping his body up so the water ran into his nose. It was like drowning, made you feel like you’d run out of air and die any moment. Steed held him down to the count of twenty and then brought him back up again. 

“Who?” 

But he saw in the man’s eyes nothing but infuriating resistance. Maybe this was the man who killed Gianni, and dumped his lifeless body off a rooftop onto the balcony. Maybe he was the one who slit the little man’s throat and watched him bleed out on the ground before collecting him and spinning him over a wall like a sack of rubbish. Or maybe he just stood by and saw it done. He shoved the fellow’s head back under the running water and held him there. There was only one solution for men like this, men with no conscience, with only blind dedication to a faceless organization…

“Steed!” 

Steed’s consciousness returned and he was aware of Mrs. Peel standing in the doorway, a stricken look on her face. 

“Steed, he’s drowning!” 

Steed looked. The man’s head was submerged in the few feet of water that had filled the tub. Steed could feel his struggles weakening. He idly calculated how long before they ceased altogether. Then his wife’s face returned to him. 

He pulled the man out of the tub. Water gushed from his nose, his breath came in hard gasps and coughs. Steed stared at him and felt all the hate flow away. 

“Our friend in here is ready to talk,” said Emma, her even voice betraying none of the horror that Steed began to feel. “I think they’re just hired guns.”

The second man was lying trussed at the foot of the bed. Steed dragged his compatriot in and shoved him to the ground. 

“Now,” he said, sitting down. “What’s it all about?”

The second man was a young, dark featured Sicilian. He couldn’t have been much over twenty. His eyes widened more at the sight of his companion hacking and wheezing and dripping wet. 

“What did you do to him?” he shouted. 

“Nothing to what you wanted to do to us.” Steed picked up the snub-nosed pistol where it lay. “This would have made quite a bang. Don’t you have a silencer?”

The young man looked frightened. Steed held the gun in his palm.

“Are you amateurs, or just congenitally stupid? The old Sicilian Mob has certainly fallen upon hard times if they’re sending people like you to do their dirty work. What’s your name?”

“We are not the mob and we were not here to kill you.”

Steed glanced at Emma. Both her eyebrows had raised. 

“I suppose that’s just for spitballs,” she said, nodding at the gun. 

“It was in case.”

Steed set the gun beside him. “What did you come here to do, then? Have a nice friendly chat?” 

“To deliver a message.”

“You might have chosen a more congenial way of doing it.”

“We were not to make any noise.”

“What was the message?” asked Emma. 

The young man indicated with his head. A cardboard shoebox lay overturned near the window, where it had been kicked during the fight. Emma went and picked it up. 

“Steed?” she said, offering the box to him. Steed turned back the lid. 

For a moment, it was like going back in time. Not to the old Sicily, not to the war, but to something far more recent. Cairo, 1962. A hideous opium den, reeking of smoke and the narcotic wheeze of a half dozen addicts. Three bodies stacked in the backroom, beginning to smell. And in the midst of it a fat man with a bright, sweating face, eyes as blue as the ocean concealing a soul just as black. Holding something in his left hand, offering it like a talisman. A woman’s beaded necklace. 

Steed felt sick.

Half an hour later, Major Stimson and his team had the men cleared out. Steed had something to say to the Major about lax security - after all, they were supposed to be watching the yacht to be certain things like this didn’t happen. Or rather, Emma suspected that he would have had something to say, but he said nothing. In fact, he spoke very little, moving about the cabin with his brow furrowed, casually glancing at the cupboard where he’d stowed the box with the beaded necklace. He’d declined telling Stimson about the necklace, and Emma followed his lead. As for the men: hold them, interrogate them, find out who they worked for. Stimson knew that Steed wasn’t saying all, but he let it pass. It was late. 

Emma wasn’t asleep when Steed left the bed. She’d been lying awake for an hour - it was 2:30 now, and she knew sleep was not going to come again that night. She felt the bed shift and Steed get up, heard him put on his trousers and shirt and pad out onto the deck. For twenty minutes she struggled with herself, watching the clock. Maybe he needed to think. Maybe he needed a break, even from her. Maybe…

She got out of bed, dressed in the clothes of the day before, and went out onto the deck. The night was cooling, a soft wind rippled the water. The docks were quiet except for a few late night revelers returning home to some of the other yachts moored nearby. But their decks were quiet, peaceful. She looked at the lights of Palermo, so serene in the Mediterranean night. She thought of the many cities with their nighttime serenity, and what that serenity too often concealed. A slight breeze made her shiver. 

Steed was lying in one of the long chairs on the forward deck. At first she thought he’d fallen asleep, but when she got closer he shifted his head to look back at her. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, whispering even though they were the only ones on deck. She sat down in the chair next to him. 

“Ministry boys.” He pointed to two figures dressed like tramps, lingering in some dockside shadows. “Patently obvious.”

“Sometimes I think you’re the only competent agent they have.” 

Steed chuckled. “Why do you think I always looked for amateur partners?”

Emma reached for his hand. “Exciting night.”

“A bit. What was that about a nice, relaxing cruise in the Mediterranean?”

“I gave up relaxing the day I met you.”

There was a pause before he said, “I was going to kill him.”

“But you didn’t.” 

“If I’d been alone, I would have.”

“But you were not alone.”

His hand tightened around hers. His expression was serene - the same serenity that marked Palermo. 

After a moment, he looked at her. “Why did you say yes?”

“When?”

“When I told you what I was and offered you a job.”

“Because I knew that someday you would be on a yacht docked at Palermo, and two men would break into your cabin, and you certainly would never be able to handle both of them on your own.”

Steed laughed. “Come here.”

Emma moved into his chair. The chair was barely big enough, or sturdy enough, to hold both of them, but they made it work. Emma hunkered down against his warm body, and rested her head in the crook between his neck and shoulder. She looked down at his hand clasped around her waist, the wedding band glinting in the docklight. 

“I thought it would be fun,” she said, quietly.

“And was it fun?”

“Yes. A great deal of fun. It still is.”

“I rather thought you might have grown tired of it.”

“No, Steed. I was never tired of it.” She threaded her fingers through his. 

They went silent after that, both lost in their own memories and sensations. Emma looked at the stars above them, and felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath her. She was scared, exhausted, but beneath that was the exhilaration she had so missed: the thrill of the fight, the energy of the hunt, the stimulation of the mystery. She wanted to know all the answers to all the questions. It was something she had missed, and, if she was honest, one of the factors that brought her back to him. That, and the emptiness of her heart without him. As though in answer, Steed turned his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. 

“Emma?” he said. 

“Hmm?”

“I want to tell you about the necklace.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was in Cairo, in 1962. We were after a chap called Auguste Ventman. Ventman had his finger in every pie: extortion, fraud, human trafficking, drug running. We’d come close before, caught his subordinates red-handed, but always been stymied before we got to the top. He was ostensibly an antiquities dealer, sending shipments out of Egypt to most of the major museums in Britain, Europe, and the States. As with most fellows like that, it would have to be a case of catching him the act, something he and his lawyers could not talk or bribe their way out of. That’s why I was there. My assignment was to get into Ventman’s gang, posing as an English crime boss named Blakeley, and get something on him that he couldn’t wriggle out of. We knew that he had something big coming up, but we didn’t know what. 

Blakeley had been run up on murder charges in England, but the Ministry kept it quiet and swapped me with him. He had dealings with Ventman, though he’d never met the man face to face, so my presence wasn’t likely to arouse suspicion. We’d only have difficulties if anyone popped up who knew Blakeley by sight, but that was a risk I had to take. 

Cairo was a wild place - English, Egyptian, an assortment of Europeans, with just that thin veneer of dying empire covering a multitude of sins. It was as wild as the Moroccan casbah, really, though less famous. A glorious, sweltering place, that I loved and still love dearly. 

I had a meeting with a fellow called Jacobi, one of Ventman’s hired boys, and put forth my proposition. Ventman had difficulty getting his goods and girls into England proper. The authorities had cottoned to him and they were holding up transports, arresting girls and their pimps at ports, checking seemingly innocuous shipments of antiquities to find stashes of cocaine and heroine rolled up with the mummies. My proposition was to import via Scotland, which seemed like a long way around. I had connections with the port authorities - that’s what I said - and could easily get the permits. They weren’t watching places like Leith with the assiduity they were watching English ports; I could bring in all kinds of shipments without much fear of police interference. It was actually a damn good idea; I wondered why Ventman hadn’t thought of it. 

Jacobi was a rough bastard, with the face of an angel - the sort of pretty boy you should never trust. He liked causing pain - it was something you could practically see in his eyes, feel in the way he talked. He looked at me like I was a succulent strip steak, and would be overjoyed if he ever found out I was a spy. But the plan I’d outlined for him was too good to pass up and he took me to see Ventman. We went to their base, a little Egyptian restaurant and cafe called The Shrine of Anubis. Upstairs in a little back office, I met Auguste Ventman for the first time. 

There are some people that exude evil. Something in their appearance hits on all of those vague memories of being a child frightened of the bogeyman. You don’t know what he’s going to do to you, but he’s there in the room with you, waiting for the lights to go out. Ventman was like that. He had bright, cruel blue eyes, the round face of a department store Santa Claus, and hands that were oddly delicate for a man of his bulk. He scared me, I don’t mind admitting it. 

I put my plan to him, just as I had to Jacobi, and he listened to the whole thing with his hands clasped over his gut and his eyes closed. There were two other people in the room, besides Jacobi and myself: a big tough I learned was called Abdul, even though he was about as Egyptian as I am, and a smaller French-Egyptian called Gerard, who acted as the accountant and day-to-day salesman for the organization. 

By the time I’d finished explaining everything, I began to feel nervous. There was this terrific silence for about a minute that made me think I’d been rumbled and they were soon to shoot me in the head and dump me into the Nile. Ventman hadn’t even spoken; I’d yet to hear his voice. Then he opened his eyes, and looked me square in mine. 

“Your reputation proceeds you, Mr. Blakeley, and your plan, I think, is an excellent one. However, before I partner with anyone, I must run some checks on them. If a man of your stature does not object to waiting a few days - at our expense, of course - I will have an answer for you.”

I remember the words, exactly as he said them, because the voice was so arresting. It was a soothing, soft voice, a trifle high-pitched, oddly ingratiating. But there was a hardness there too: if I said no to anything it meant that our business was over.

I made some small objections at my word being doubted, as Blakeley would have, but the upshot was that I’d wait in Cairo for his answer. I sensed that he wanted to feel me out as a person and not just as a potential business contact, and that I’d best be on my guard. He asked me if I’d join him and his wife for dinner at their house that night. I agreed and returned to my hotel to make my report. 

Ventman and his wife lived in a big house - not quite a mansion - outside of town. The other dinner guests were a British attache, and a businessman named Frobisher. I’d been told not to reveal my identity to anyone, though I was tempted to let the Attache know what was going on. 

Conversation was innocuous, about life in Cairo, social gatherings, parties, some politics without any real dedication. I had my ears open, but it was all very dull. The only point of interest was Lilly, Ventman’s wife. She was about ten years younger than him, and pretty in a quiet way - I’d expected a man like him to have some air-headed gold-digger for a wife. I’d like to say there was something tragic about her, even then, but there really wasn’t. She was just the quiet wife of a British businessman. I couldn’t even be sure how much she knew about what he was, or how far she was into it. There was this odd tension between them - he spoke to her on occasion, and always with the utmost respect, but I could hear the sarcasm in his tone. For her part, she was scared of him. Not outwardly, you understand, but you could feel it in the air. I don’t think he ever raised a hand to her - it was deeper than that, hidden, psychological violence, the sort a man like that was perfectly capable of and would enjoy. 

After dinner they fanagled it so that I was left alone with Lilly while they went off to - I don’t remember, play billiards or something. In any case, it was obvious that my trying to invite myself would be shot down. So there I was, standing on the veranda in the moonlight with the wife of a man I’d been sent to take in. 

Lilly hadn’t said much at dinner, but she began talking now. I got the sense that she lived a very isolated life - there were no other women at the dinner, and the men only paid enough attention to her to be polite. I encouraged her to talk about anything, really. I wanted to get a line on her, decide how much she knew about her husband’s business and how much she could reveal. I came to the conclusion that she didn’t know much. A babe in the woods, as it were, married to an exporter of antiquities. She talked about Cairo, asked about England, told me she missed it. All the usual things that ex-patriates talk about with each other. Nothing of any value to me. 

One thing that she said stuck with me, though. It was just before the men came back into the room behind us. She turned to me, looked me in the eyes for the first time, and said:

“Mr. Blakeley, you don’t talk like an antiquities expert. It’s most refreshing.”

It was the way she said it, something underneath her words - a plea and an accusation in one. I didn’t have a chance to respond or to decide what she meant by it, because Ventman and his friends returned. 

That was it for that evening. I went back to my hotel having been in Ventman’s house and talked to his wife and his friends without learning much of anything. I knew that I was on trial and that Ventman was being careful. He didn’t suspect I was a plant, but he suspected that Blakeley was not to be trusted straight off. 

I got back to my hotel at about eleven o’clock, wrote up my report and sent it off, then sat smoking and drinking, trying to parse out the evening in my mind. It all disturbed me and it all centered around Lilly. She was an unknown quantity. I needed to decide how to handle her. 

I think the idea was forming in my mind even before what happened that night. It was around one in the morning and I was still awake, still drinking, still smoking. I had all the lights except the bedside lamp off and the room was a suite, so with the door to the bedroom closed the sitting room was completely dark. I heard the lock rattling. I snapped off the lamp and grabbed my handtorch and gun from the bedside table. I could hear the familiar crackle of someone picking the lock. The door outside opened. I got up and crept to the bedroom door. In the sitting room a figure fumbled about in the dark. The blowback of the light from her torch showed me who it was. I turned on the sitting room lights. 

“Mrs. Ventman.”

She looked shocked, but covered it quickly. She explained that she wanted to see me and put on this…rather practiced little job about being so lonely here in Cairo, about how her husband didn’t pay attention to her, and I was so nice and understanding and reminded her of her home and England. It amazed me - she tried to argue that she was there to seduce me. I do believe she’d have gone to bed with me just to prove the point, but even in those days I had some decency left. The performance brought everything home, though. I didn’t think she’d been sent there by Ventman. I think she went on her own steam and of her own accord and I wanted to know why. So we arranged to meet the next day - she’d volunteer to take me around to some of the museums. And I’d get a chance to decide just what she did know and how she could be of use to me. 

Steed paused for longer than it takes to draw breath. Emma shifted around in her husband’s arms. He seemed quite far away - back in Cairo, doing hard and dangerous work that few men would be able to do, much less want to. A dying light shone in his grey eyes. 

“You were there to do a job, Steed,” she said. 

He took a labored breath. “I’ve never been ashamed of what I’ve had to do. If I’ve used people to my own ends, it was to right a greater wrong than the one I committed.”

There was a “but” in that sentence, and it was one he’d never finish. Emma knew about this portion of Steed’s life, but it still sounded like a piece of pulp fiction. She shivered.

“Are you cold? I could get you a blanket…”

“You’re better than a blanket.” She slid her hand under his cotton shirt and warmed it on the smooth skin of his stomach. His arm tightened about her and he began to speak again.


	7. Chapter 7

For two days it went on. Lily and I went around together, seeing what we could of Cairo, while Ventman sent off to England about my credentials and looked into my proposal. I learned a great deal about her - and about him. I concluded that she didn’t know much about this business, was probably even unaware of who or what her husband was. She’d met him at an embassy dinner - her father had been a major financier. I didn’t know and didn’t care to ask why she had married him; suffice to say that she regretted it now. She was lonely, and I was a breath of air from England. 

But she suspected him - that’s why she came to my hotel room. Clumsy as the break-in had been, she was trying to find out what business I was in. I finally confronted her with it, one night after dinner and dancing. I think that even then she had some inkling of who I was, or at least what business I might have been in. 

It all came out - everything. I think she finally broke, the few days we’d spent together destroying some of the fragile balance she’d lived on. She wanted to let it all go. So she did. It didn’t matter if I was Blakeley or someone else. She simply could not hold it in any longer and she had to tell someone, vicious criminal or not. So she talked and I listened. Most of it was about how unhappy she was, how much she wanted to go home, with an undercurrent about her husband’s cruelty. I let her talk, for too long. If I had truly been Blakeley, I would have been letting her dig herself a hole she could never get out of. But I wasn’t Blakeley. 

It was a mad night - training is quite effective to make you hold up under torture and suppress your most human instincts for your own survival, to make you ruthless. But confronted with Lily’s pain, her suffering through no fault of her own, and my heart - I did have a heart, even in those days - went out to her. So did my mind. Ventman had a wife that could not be trusted; one that feared and, it was apparent, hated him. One who wanted to go home. So I decided, on instinct, to give her the chance that she wanted. 

I told her some of the truth. I told her what I knew Ventman had done and did for living - I told her that I was a customs officer trying to get to the bottom of the whole ugly business. I said that she could help me to put him behind bars and herself back in England, if she chose. At first I thought I’d gone to far and that her fear of him would override her hatred, but when she finally looked at me, I knew I had her. I asked if Ventman had any place where he kept accounts: a ledger, or a diary, anything of that sort. She said that she thought he did: a ledger in his desk, that he always kept locked. That was it: if she could get in to see that ledger, and photograph pages for me, we might be on our way. I gave her one of those little cameras to photograph the most recent and pertinent entries, just as a test. A day later, I had the pictures in my possession. Ventman had a massive shipment going out on the 14th, but there was even more. Names, dates, reference numbers - the damn thing was a treasure trove, the repository of information for Ventman’s entire organization. I had in my hands a way to sweep them all up in one move. Lily agreed to sneak in and photograph the rest of the ledger on the 14th, when Ventman would be down on the docks overseeing his shipment. I knew about it because I’d been invited. He’d decided to take Blakeley up on his offer. Lily agreed to do it and I promised to get her out of the country and back to England, with Ventman safely behind bars. 

Emma felt the tension in his chest rather than heard it in his voice. She tried to raise herself enough to see his face, but he had her gripped tight about the shoulders, his body contracting in on itself like a vice. She feared the next words, though she fancied she could predict some of them. 

I arrived on the docks at noon on the 14th. Ventman wasn’t there, but Jacobi came within a few minutes to tell me his boss would be late. Detained at the office, he said - and I can’t forget how he said it, with this smirk on his face, as though he was having his own private joke at my expense. There wasn’t much I could do. I waited for nearly forty-five minutes in almost total silence in that damned shipping office. I tried to complain and asked who Ventman thought he was, keeping me waiting after all the rigmorale about my “credentials.” Then the phone rang. Jacobi answered and spoke quietly for a few minutes, eying me the whole time. When he hung up, he just reached into his pocket and pulled out his gun. He called me by my proper name. 

I still wonder if I really did get out of that office alive. We fought at close quarters. Jacobi was shorter than me but wiry and, of course, he had the gun. I finally managed to knock him out, then called in the Egyptian police. The shipment was enough to hold him up for some time, and I was beginning to realize that the whole operation might have been compromised anyways. I left the scene just as they were arriving and drove to Ventman’s. 

Ventman was gone. I thought the house was deserted at first, until I…heard her. I went into the living room. The place smelled of burnt coffee. She was lying on the floor, a gash in her head and…her face. He’d burned her. The carpet was still wet with coffee. He must have caught her photographing the ledger, or else knew what she was doing in the first place, they fought and…dear God, Emma, if I’d been there sooner! If I hadn’t waited! She was in shock as it was, but the gash in the head had knocked her out and the burns…I called an ambulance and tried to check her for other wounds. She was awake, looking at me from eyes almost soldered shut. But she managed to tell me where Ventman’s hideout was. Half dead, burned, lying there on her own living room carpet bleeding, and the woman told me where to find him. 

When we caught up to him, it was a damn good thing the others went in ahead of me. I would have throttled him with his own skin folds. But when I went in after them, he was just sitting in his chair, as though he was waiting for me. He’d destroyed the ledger, of course, and with it anyone in his grasp who might be able to tell us anything - they still hadn’t finished disposing of the bodies when we arrived. He just sat there in his damned chair, fingering a cheap little beaded necklace I’d bought for Lily two days before. Just something she liked in the market. He didn’t say anything to me, and I was too overwhelmed with rage to do more than think about different ways of killing him en route to the prison. As he walked out, he put the necklace in his pocket and told me good-bye. 

Steed wiped his face with one hand. “Two days later, Lily died of her injuries and I came back to London.”

They lay in the pregnant silence. Emma searched her mind for the right words, but none were forthcoming. 

But she was surprised when she reached up to caress his cheek and felt the wetness there. He was crying, silently, wordlessly, the tears running down his cheeks. She had never seen him cry before. 

“Steed…”

“I’ve done terrible things in my life, Emma, but few that I’ve ever regretted so much as letting that girl do my job for me. I was lazy and selfish and it cost her her life.”

“You couldn’t have known. She wanted to do it.”

“She wasn’t an agent - she was a scared, battered wife who wanted to go home.” 

“John.” She wanted to hold him and comfort him, but it was difficult there in the too-small chair. So she made do with hugging him tighter, resting her head on his chest. “Darling, you couldn’t have known how it would end. You couldn’t have done anything but what you did.”

Steed sucked in a hard breath. “You’ve married a very difficult man, my dear.”

“I’ve married a very noble man. But I knew that already.” She kissed his cheek, brushing away the last of the tears. “Do you think it’s Ventman?”

“It must be. I don’t rightly know.”

“Can he have escaped?”

“Escaped or been set free.”

“Wouldn’t the Ministry have informed you?”

The noise he made sounded like a derisive horse. “You worked for them - what do you think?”

“Top-Top Hush?”

“So Hush you can’t even hear it.” He sighed. “What a honeymoon.”

“Oh, it could be worse.” 

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

“Nothing.” She patted his chest and moved to get up. “But it’s late and we both need some rest. Come back to bed.”

He went with her, not quite willing. But when they undressed and got back between the sheets, he pulled her to him and held her with the same tension. 

“Steed, you have to relax,” she said, rubbing his chest gently. “The Major has his men watching the docks, there’s no chance of another invasion tonight.”

“It’s not that. The day you came back, I told you that I’d never put you in danger again.”

“And I told you that I hoped you were joking.”

“I meant it, Emma.”

“So did I. Steed, are you worried about me?”

He traced the outline of her eye with the tips of his fingers. “I love you very much, Emma. You’re my weakness and my strength. That frightens me. It always has.”

She nestled against him. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling; not now.”

But as she closed her eyes and listened to his breathing, she knew he was not going to sleep that night.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day was overcast and slightly damp - a perfect corollary to Emma’s feelings, all in all. Breakfast was spent in general silence, each of them dwelling in their own thoughts: Steed in his memories and Emma wondering how her honeymoon, with a man she loved far more deeply than any other, had gone so sour. A restless night had them sleeping too far apart, when they should have been united. It seemed to set the general tone of their current predicament. But when they parted ways at the dock edge, Steed to interview the Major on these latest developments, Emma to the bookshop where Gianni purchased the English Dante, Emma was surprised by a sudden show of public affection from her husband. As though the tension which had held him in check all the night and morning suddenly grew too much, and broke, he reached for her, taking her hands with a disarming tenderness that would have broken her heart but for the look of quiet pleading in his light eyes. He seemed at a loss of what to say for the moment, his dear face betraying all the emotions he usually kept so perfectly in check. Emma knew that he was, in many ways, more demonstrative than she, that he felt deeply and carried with him all the successes he ever had, and all the suffering that he could not prevent. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him, to shield him from the cruelties of the world in which he dwelt, to take him back to their cabin and sail away - far from Palermo, far from Sicily, far from anything that could touch him harshly. She knew she couldn’t - there was much to be settled in Palermo, and if Ventman was at large he had to be dealt with. Still, anyone who hurt Steed now would have to deal with her. 

She said none of this to him, but could not suppress a shiver of emotion as he bowed his head and, pressing her hands between his own, kissed them - first the back of her left hand, and then the ring, the simple band that tied her to him. 

“Do be careful,” he said, looking into her eyes now. 

“Always. You too.”

“Always. You know, you’re really very beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied, brushing the back of her hand against his cheek. He smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling into the crow’s feet she sometimes traced as they lay side by side. She reached up and kissed him, gently, the barest brushing of their lips. It was like the kiss they shared the day she made her worst mistake. The similarity proved too much for her. 

“Steed,” she whispered, and pressed her mouth to his. If this was to be the last time she ever kissed him, it would not be like that. 

“I love you,” she said, and was surprised by the tear in her own voice. “I always loved you, and I will always love you.”

He said nothing. He just held her so tightly that she still felt his arms when she walked away. She willed herself not to look back. 

Walking through the familiar streets of Palermo on the way to his rendezvous, Steed felt that same sickly nostalgia he’d had since Gianni’s death. Strange how so many things seemed to come together now - Gianni, wholly uninvolved with anything that happened in Cairo in 1962, suddenly dropped into the center of it. Ventman, almost forgotten, rearing his ugly head. The image of Lily lying on the soft carpet, the smell of cold coffee, the fury that struck him icy hot in the pit of his stomach - all of them, rolled into a single, horrible memory. And it was one that had infected Emma, whom he wanted to keep separate from the horror of his past. If he admitted it, he wanted to lie to her - he wanted to be a better man than he had been, to have her look at him and not see the lives he had claimed, the violence he had done, or the deaths he’d been responsible for. Somehow, he would fix it. He would kill those memories, he would blot Ventman out of existence, and he would keep his marriage inviolate. 

The Major was waiting for him. Another smoky little cafe, another secret discussion probably overheard by half a dozen agents from half a dozen nations. Palermo was swarming with spies, like most places. Steed could almost pick them out from the main herd - the ones who looked too engrossed in their books, too interested in fruit from the nearby stand, too nonchalant over their morning coffees and rolls. Spies all looked the same, and they fooled no one, not even themselves. It was the sort of stalemate that he was getting tired of. 

The Major made some comment about sleep, or lack thereof, that Steed did not respond to. He waited for his coffee to light his cigarette, then waited for his cigarette to burn. Then he asked his question:

“When did you let Auguste Ventman go?”

The Major did not stare at him. He didn’t even have the grace to look surprised or offended by the question. He sipped his coffee. 

“I suppose one of your friends last night told you.”

“No. Ventman told me himself - he sent me a present.”

“Ah.” The Major nodded, as though he expected it all along.

“When did you let him go?”

“About a year ago. You’d have to inquire from Mother to know the exact date.”

“I’ll make certain to do that, just for my diary. Why did you let him go?”

“He has a man named Jacobi…”

“I’ve met him.”

The Major gave him an interested glance. “That’s right. Jacobi slipped the net back in ’62, along with a few others. He went underground and wasn’t heard from for about four, five years.”

“Until now.”

“Jacobi suddenly turns back up - at least, we think it’s him. He’s running a few new businesses. But Jacobi was never a bright fellow - he was a tough, and still is.”

“So you think it’s Ventman, somehow getting word out from prison. And you let him go so that he could lead you to Jacobi and the rest of his organization still at large.” Steed stubbed out the cigarette, though he had not finished it. “This is sounding curiously familiar.”

“If you’re thinking of Prendergast…”

“And Martin Goodman. They both slipped the Ministry net, didn’t they? Turn up with an axe to grind, both of them.”

“Against you and your partners.”

“Amazing.” Steed let his voice drip. He felt like hitting something, preferably the Major, but he didn’t. “Why wasn’t I informed about Ventman?”

“Mother didn’t think it necessary.”

“Mother thought I’d ask to be on the case.”

“It was my understanding that Mother was…concerned.”

That put it mildly. Steed knew he had not been trusted for awhile - not at the administrative level, but he had become unpredictable. Violent and more prone to hitting suspects first and asking questions much, much later. He wasn’t proud of it, whatever his reasons. Mother knew what those were as well as anyone did. 

“In any case, Ventman was being watched closely.”

“Not close enough.”

Steed considered. They probably lost Ventman not too long ago - say two or three months. Right around the time he met Emma again. So Mother had continued to keep quiet, let Steed go on sabbatical, keep out of trouble. He didn’t know whether he should thank the old man for his sympathy or hate him for his complacency.

“They might have told me before we came to Sicily.”

“You didn’t give the Ministry an itinerary, did you? Anyways, we only just tracked Ventman down.”

“I still should have been informed.” Steed sat back in his chair. “Do you know where Ventman is operating from now?”

“We’ve had Jacobi followed for the past two weeks. We think we’ve narrowed it down to some warehouses down on the docks, but which ones we’re not…”

The Major was cut off by the appearance of their waiter. He held an envelope in his left hand. 

“You’re Mr. Steed?” he said. “I was asked to give you this, sir.”

Steed took the envelope in exchange for a few coins. The Major was still talking, but Steed didn’t hear; not as he opened his missive and drew out the single, thin sheet of paper that smelled of scented oil and the sea; not as his heart dropped into his stomach and his fingertips tingled with a strange and yet familiar heat; not as the words, clear and fuzzy all at once, mocked him from the clean white page, reading: 

A wife for a wife. -V


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Emma reached the English language bookshop whose rubber stamp adored the front cover of Giani’s book, she had more or less recovered from bidding farewell to her husband. She began to wonder if she was losing her grip - after all, they had parted from each other before, many times: Steed to go off and break into some private laboratory, while she scaled high walls and fought off armed guards. Not for many years, though. Not since they had found their way into each other’s arms again, since that day when she met him, entirely by accident, at Julian Penworth’s, him unaccompanied and her without her ring. They hadn’t been apart since that night, when they didn’t even make love, just sat together until the sun came up.

So it was no wonder that this return to their old ways made her just a little nervous. After all, who was going to look after him without her around?

The shop was small and cramped, as only the best bookshops are, with stacks that reached right to the ceiling, and snaked around the floor. The bell jangled when she entered and a voice, speaking Italian but with a heavy accent of English, told her that he’d be with her directly.

“Never mind! I’m just browsing,” she returned.

She wasn’t certain what she was looking for in the bookshop - a clue to the reason behind the Dante, but what form that would take or if it would even avail her to find out now seemed vague. She’d considered that the bookseller’s might be a front for Ventman’s activities - a front or a clearing house. Seeing it now, it was well-situated. Entirely innocuous, there were probably hundreds like it in Palermo, with a number of valuable volumes behind glass cases in addition to the more garden-variety paperback novels and books of poetry. Sending money, even large sums of it, through a place like this would be easy. They probably kept their own books in big ledgers and the sale of expensive volumes would be easy enough to fudge.

Emma was browsing through the poetry section when a chubby little man with round glasses materialized from the backroom.

“You’re looking for something specific?” he asked in Italian.

“Yes. A book of poetry, for my husband,” Emma replied in English.

“Ah! Then there is much to be found! Rossetti!” He began pulling volumes down from the shelf, smiling and gabbling on about the famous English poetess. Emma smiled. She could just picture Steed lying on the yacht’s deck, reading out Goblin Market in that terribly serious voice that always made her laugh. She took the book.

“I was also looking for a Dante. Like this one.” She produced the book as though she’d just removed it from the shelf. The little man grinned and took it from her hands.

“Yes, Dante, the Inferno, the great love of the author and Beatrice! Yes, for a man to travel through the underworld itself in pursuit of his love! A great romance, signora.”

As he spoke, he opened the cover of the book, the way one does when about to search for a particularly important passage. He suddenly stopped in his speech. He glanced up at her and Emma hoped that her face was all innocence.

“Ah, I regret, signora, that this is not for sale.” He snapped the book closed. “Do pardon me.”

Emma waited until the little man had vanished into the back room with her book. Then she gently opened the front door and slipped out, taking care not to jangle the bell.

The bookshop was on a corner, with an alley between it and the next building. Emma skirted down the small sidestreet towards the back of the building. It was choked with refuse from the surrounding buildings, and had an aroma peculiar to Palermo, as she’d learnt in her few days there. A few enterprising rats, out in the Sicilian daylight, noted her presence and then went about their business. But she had been right in her assumptions: there was a backdoor to the bookshop, opening out onto the alley, and the door stood wide open to let in what little air it could. She slipped next to it and listened hard for the bookseller’s voice. Garbled Italian and English phrases floated out to her on the sultry air - he was talking on the phone, voice somewhat muffled by the receiver, but she could hear the words “Dante” and “Inglese” occasionally and with great clarity. Strange how inflections, even in another language, could indicate the closing of the conversation. The bookseller was evidently listening to whoever was on the other end, inspersing only the occasional yes in English. Then she heard a phrase that made her blood run cold - a biological occurrence that she’d never known was possible until she met Steed:

“Yes, it will be done. I have already contacted Jacobi.”

As if to emphasize these last words, a large hand closed around her neck and Emma was pulled back into the embrace of very strong arms. Garlic flavored breath came close to her ear,

“Do not move, signora.”

Emma did not like being ordered about.

The saying “they bigger they are, the harder they fall” is a perfectly adequate one - Emma learned long ago that big men believe that all they need to do is stand there and their weight will do the rest for them. The large man behind her was imbalanced - she could feel it in the pressure of his arm and the C shape he had to make in order to hold onto her. It took very little leverage to pitch him forward over her shoulder; he had done most of the work already.

As he struggled to his feet, Emma caught him a quick clap on both ears that would rattle his equilibrium. He stumbled backwards, recovered faster than she intended, and rushed towards her, using his body like a bull. But all a charging bull’s power is in the forward thrust and Emma had ample time to dodge to the side, striking him again smartly on the back of the neck. His neck was like a side of beef and stung her hand, but she smiled as he sprawled out,face downward, grunting. He turned. He growled. He balled one huge hand into a fist. Then he stopped. A look of vicious glee spread over his face and Emma turned to look behind her.

A young man stood four feet away, well out of reach. The silver pistol glinted in his hand. Emma could have calculated the potential velocity of the bullet if she wanted to bother, but she knew for a fact that the range and distance were adequate. The young man’s face broke into a grin, stretching the thin scar across his cheek.

“Don’t move, Mrs. Steed. I promise this won’t hurt.”

Emma felt the bull move behind her. She felt the strange pinprick of a needle in her arm. Then she felt nothing at all.


	10. Chapter 10

Light filtered into the darkness. It was a vague, hazy light at first, but soon grew in clarity and brightness, until Emma was able to distinguish shapes. The shapes accompanied sounds: the clank of metal, the gentle lapping of water, the murmur of voices that she knew should be louder. The first full sentence she understood was, “She’s coming around.”

Then, as quickly as she’d gone out, she was awake and aware. She was on a table, her hands above her head and feet secured by leather straps: an unfortunately familiar postion. She wondered why villains always insisted on strapping one down. Surely a few ropes would have sufficed.

She was able to lift her head, however, enough to see the source of the voices that were increasing in clarity. There were only three people in the room with her: the bull of a man whom, she was pleased to note, had a darkening bruise on his neck; the younger man called Jacobi; and a third, whom she could not see but whose voice she heard above her head, speaking not to her but to Jacobi: a soft, syrupy voice that she recognized instantly, though she’d never heard it before. The room itself was all concrete and metal girders, a small storehouse down on the wharf, based on the nearby sounds of boats and waves. One of Ventman’s storehouses, empty but for her and her captors. Emma sighed.

“Ah!” the syrupy voice spoke to her. “Awake, Mrs. Steed?”

“And rather uncomfortable,” she said, pulling on the straps around her wrists. “Is this really necessary?”

“I regret that it is. Your abilities at escaping from such situations are well known, so we had to tighten things a bit more than usual.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

There was movement behind her and Ventman hove into view. He was much as Steed had described him: corpulent and balding now, with a snub nose and a pair of glittering, evil eyes. He grasped a white-handled cane in one hand and leaned on it, his head tilted to the side. He regarded her for several seconds as though he’d just discovered a particularly interesting new species.

“Your beauty has not been overestimated. Mr. Steed chose wisely.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Must we go through all this? I’ve heard it all.”

Ventman smiled, showing a set of disturbingly white teeth. “Of course. You’re an old hand at this, aren’t you? Very well, we shall make it brief - it coincides with my plans in any case, because your husband should be here any minute. I suppose he told you who I am?”

“Auguste Ventman: smuggler, extortionist, pimp, and murderer.”

Ventman gave a wet chuckle that shook his jowls. “That is about the size of it. But not murderer, Mrs. Steed; not murderer. I have never killed anyone.”

“No, of course not. Your kind never does.” Emma nodded in the direction of Jacobi. “But he does, I’m sure.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Jacobi has been an invaluable asset. Still: fair’s fair, Mrs. Steed. I am not a murderer. As you know me, you must know how your husband and I first became acquainted. I have no doubt he told you a rather skewed version of the truth, but the basic facts must be the same. Did he tell you how my wife died?”

“You burned her.”

Ventman sighed. “Lily was…she betrayed me. I didn’t blame her, God knows. She was weak-minded, willing to trust anyone, no matter how untrustworthy. Your husband was not a nice man in those days, Mrs. Steed. It’s my understanding that he’s changed, but how far can a man like that really change?”

This rankled. She didn’t mean for it to, but it did. “Get on with it.”

“He killed her, Mrs. Steed, not I. His behavior, his plotting, that killed her. He seduced her and she betrayed me and he killed her. Oh, he may not have pulled a trigger or thrust a knife home, but he killed her. If you call me a murderer, Mrs. Steed, you must call him one too.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“I don’t presume that you’ll believe me. I’m sure you’re painfully devoted to him, but it’s only right that you should know before I explain what will happen to you.” Ventman waved one fleshy hand and Jacobi moved behind him, tinkering with something near the door.

“I want you to know, you see, because you and your husband must appreciate the justice of what I do. In Cairo all those years ago, I lost a wife. Your husband made me lose her. I am a strong believer in an eye for an eye, Mrs. Steed.”

Emma looked up. On one of the low beams above her head, Jacobi positioned a small metal beaker attached to a long wire. She followed the wire to where it ended, against the door that opened inwards. It did not take a knowledge of physics to understand what he was doing: when the door opened, the wire would go slack and whatever was in the beaker would tip onto her head.

“This is somewhat elaborate, but rather poetic,” Ventman continued. “In that vial that Mr. Jacobi is currently handling so carefully is corrosive acid. We expect your husband shortly. He will, of course, try to break down the door - there is no window to this warehouse. And when he does…it may not kill you - not right away at least - but it will be very unpleasant.”

“You’ve planned this all out very well, haven’t you? What if he doesn’t come through the door?”

“He will. And he will want to save you, won’t he? That’s what he does: he saves women. Only he saves them too late.”

The conversation appeared to be over. Jacobi grinned down at her and smoothed duct tape over her mouth.

Ventman clomped away. “Good-bye, Mrs. Steed,” he called. “It seems a great shame.”

She heard a creak and a thunk and the echoing of footsteps descending. Then there was silence in that big room.

Emma turned over the situation in her mind. Surely they had left some message for Steed that would lead him here. She looked up at the beaker suspended over her head. There was the chance, of course, that the very act of kicking the door in would dislodge it and it would miss her. But she didn’t much want to depend upon happenstance. Even the fumes could do lasting damage to her eyes.

She pulled carefully on each leather strap. Her hands were tightly secured and no matter how she narrowed them, she could not find a way to pull loose. But her feet…the straps had been secured around the ankles of her boots. She rattled her left foot around. If she could move the foot itself…yes, it was just possible.

She heard the noise of footsteps outside. The door rattled. A muffled, dearly recognizable voice called her name. Emma rolled her foot in her boot. It slid out partway, her heel now pressed against the back. The door rattled again, the voice was louder. Panicked. Emma looked up at the beaker, jiggling slightly with the movement of the door. She would not let Ventman win. With a wrench of her muscles, she pulled one foot out. There was a thump on the other side. She saw the wire tremble again. The beaker trembled with it. The other foot pulled out faster and Emma rolled backwards so that her toe could grab onto the edge of the duct tape.

“Steed, don’t!” she screamed as loud as she could, spitting around the corners of the tape. “Don’t!”

The door stopped rattling.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Don’t open the door! There’s a trap door!” she shouted. “Underneath the dock! There must be stairs!”

Footsteps clomped away. Emma lay back, sweat beading her brow. She heard a banging, then the same creak somewhere in the middle of the floor. Padded footsteps across the planks. A very familiar face came into view.

“Get me loose,” she said, rattling the leather straps. “And move that beaker - it’s full of acid.”

He did as he was told, very quickly and quietly. Not until she was free and sitting up did he come to meet her eyes.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“I’m fine.”

Never, in all the years she’d saved him and he’d saved her, did she embrace him afterwards. But the look of worry and of sorrow in his face was too much for her and she did this time, leaning into him, holding him close to her. His arms curved around her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” She got down off the table. “Ventman can’t be far away. I fancy he wanted to wait and see what happened.”

Steed nodded, the stricken look on his face subsiding into the usual, quiet anger that prefaced a battle with the villains of the world. He did not release her hand as she got off the table.

Together they descended through the trap door. The water lapped beneath them as they trod across a narrow planking to a low dock and then back up a set of stairs onto the main wharf.

Emma could barely take in the sight of Ventman, sitting in a small boat not ten meters from where they had come up, and Jacobi training a gun on them before she felt the impact. She rolled to the side and came up facing her friend the bull. He rushed again and this time she was prepared. She rolled back and braced, using his forward momentum to fling him over her head. She only just aware of Jacobi and Steed wrestling for the gun before the bull came at her for the third and, for her money, final time. She was getting tired of this. She dodged to the right and stuck out her foot. He tripped, shouted, and plunged headfirst into the water.

Steed had managed to knock the gun out of Jacobi’s hand. It skittered away down the dockside. Emma ran for it, aware of the thump of Steed’s fist into Jacobi’s stomach. The other man went down on the dock and Emma reached for the gun, just as a bullet ricocheted a few inches from her hand. She jerked upright.

There was Ventman, coming towards them, gun poised in one fleshy hand. His little eyes glittered with malevolence as he turned the gun between the two of them. Measuring. Considering. He said nothing, but his eyes locked with Steed’s and Emma saw the tiny, vicious smile before the barrel turned to her.

“No,” said Steed.

She heard the explosion of two guns firing at once. She braced her body for the impact, eyes slammed tight shut. There was no pain. She opened her eyes. Steed was looking at her, an expression almost of surprise on his whitening face. Blood stained his white shirt and he sank to his knees. Beyond his shoulder, Emma could see Ventman tottering, and falling over as the Major came up behind him. 

Emma rushed forward and seized Steed before he fell onto the deck. She pressed her hand to his chest as blood poured freely. His grey eyes met hers.

“Exciting honeymoon,” he said.


	11. Chapter 11

The water lapped gently against the side of the yacht as it skimmed through a calm Mediterranean. The water was blue, the sun was bright and it shimmered through the half drawn curtains of the large sleeping cabin.

“ ‘I loved you first…’ ”

“A confounded lie.” Steed drew his fingers through his wife’s soft hair. The sunlight glinted off the auburn strands and formed a red tinted halo at the edges.

Emma raised her head. “How do you know? I might have been madly in love with you from the moment I set eyes on you.”

“You yelled at me the first time you saw me.”

“You should know by now that fighting does not mean one is not in love.”

“Those Titian tresses…”

“Shut up and listen to the poem.”

She returned her attention to the book, propped up on his bare chest.

“‘I loved you first: but afterwards your love

Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song

As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.

Which owes the other most? my love was long,

And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong…’ Steed, if you keep doing that, I’ll never finish it.”

“Come here.”

“I’m here.”

“Come closer.” He curled his fingers against her head and she rose to hover over him and kiss his lips. He attempted to raise his other hand to embrace her but stopped as the dull ache rumbled through his arm.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “An excellent bridegroom I make: can’t even hold m’wife properly.”

Emma laughed and rolled over to set the book on the side table. “I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

The last few days in Palermo had been if not more pleasant than the first, at least less fraught with fear and fatigue. Steed had experience recovering from bullet wounds, but it never made it any easier. Between that, managing the police, and sending reports back to London recounting what had happened, and how, and where, there had been precious little time to simply relax. Now, nearly a week following the shoot-out with Ventman on the docks, he was finally able to have more than a few minutes alone with his wife.

“Steed,” Emma said, resting her chin on his chest. “Why did Ventman kill Giani? Revenge?”

“Could be. It’s likely that Giani discovered something about that bookshop, though: enough to send me that Dante. He may have pieced the bits together: the Ministry searching for Ventman, my past with the man, the bookshop, and it all added up to more danger than he’d realized at first. So when I pop up, he goes out of his way to warn me off without giving himself away to Ventman’s boys…or so he thought. Poor Giani. He was a better man than most of us.”

Steed sighed, remembering the smiling little Sicilian he’d known all those years ago. It didn’t seem fair, because of course it wasn’t.

Emma kissed his chest. “But now Ventman is dead too.”

“That, at least, is worth something.”

“Any other gentlemen with grudges in your past that I should know about?”

“If I think of any, I’ll let you know.”

He tightened his good arm around her. He had lost many friends, and even a few lovers, over the years, but he had her. He did not believe in second chances because he’d never been given any, but this was one he would not let go.

Her fingers traced their way across his chest, playing gently with the short hairs, and kissed his nipple, flickering her tongue over it. Steed closed his eyes and passively enjoyed her attentions. There were many things he wished he could do, but either did not have the energy or the strength to do them. But he made a mental list and docketed it for later, when his arm was healed and his strength recovered.

Not that this current position didn’t bring with it some interesting possibilities.

They made love gently, leisurely, taking time to kiss and caress, even in Steed’s limited capacity. There were few things more beautiful than seeing her sit up above him, straddling him, and take him into herself.

“Oh, I love you,” she sighed, rising and falling on him and sending a shimmer of pleasure through his body. He wished he had more words to put to how she made him feel, but human language had not been constructed for such a task. There was just her: her beauty, her mind, her glowing and generous heart, the animal pleasure she gave him, the pleasure he gave her. He would have to be satisifed with senses beyond the power of language.

He moved his good hand up the center of her stomach and to her breast so he could tease the pink, shining nipple as she rode him. She laughed, a sweet vibratto that sent arrows to his heart. He could lie like this forever, with her astride him, riding him on the edge of orgasm and never letting go.

But let go they did, finally, both of them together, and he traced her orgasm with as much eagerness as he did his own. Then he was pleased to hold her with one arm as she lay across his chest, to feel her breath against his collarbone and her heartbeat slowing to a steady thump.

Tomorrow they would go on to Greece, to Cyprus, and perhaps even onwards from there, before finally wending their way back home to England. He had not yet banished his ghosts; he could probably never banish his past. But he had her and that, as it had always been, was enough.


End file.
